•  ia>'£s3»f 


GIFT  or 

Class   of    I&7. 


'to L  si 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/farcryfarOOriderich 


THE  FAR  CRY 


THE  FAR  CRY 


BY 


HENRY  MILNER  RIDEOUT 

AUTHOR    OF    "WHITE    TIGER,"    ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

DUFFIELD   AND    COMPANY 

1919 


•         • 


.     •'..  Copyright.  WW, 
%•  by/Du»Fi»u>  *  Comtant 


To 
H.  Elliston  Warrall 


Dear  Warrall: 

It  is  a  long  time  since  the  Ping  Suey  lay  waiting 
for  the  Chatham  to  blow  up,  since  we  dined  with  the 
merry  Bey,  and — worst  of  all — since  we  met  and 
talked.  You,  following  the  sea  in  peace  and  war, 
have  many  friends  scattered  about  the  globe:  let 
this  book  serve  to  recall  one  of  them. 

As  formerly,  my  dear  captain,  "  chin-chin. " 

Sincerely  yours, 

H.  M.  R. 
August,  iqi6. 


£51209 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

THE    ISLE    OF    BIRDS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     The  "Nantwich":  Towing    .  3 

II.     The  "Nantwich"  :  Loose    .     .  21 

HI.     The  Flytrap 24 

IV.     Godbolt,  A.  B 41 

V.       A  TO  IZZARD 58 

VI.     The  Spent  Messenger    ...  70 

VII.     Cras  Ingens 82 

PART  II 

PULO    PRINCESS 

VIII.     Voices 97 

IX.     Thomas  Masterman  Fraye     .  109 

X.     The  Table  in  the  Grove     .     .  122 

XL     A  Morning  Call 139 

XII.     The  Second  White  Bird      .     .  154 

XIII.    Across  Country 168 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIV.     Ashes 181 

XV.     In  Charge 194 

XVI.     First  Blood       213 

XVII.     A  Thing  to  Do 226 

XVIII.     No  More  Sea 240 

XIX.  The  "Esperance"       ....  250 

XX.     Twilight 268 


PART  I 
THE  ISLE  OF  BIRDS 


"There  is  an  old  white-haired  man  who  calls  out 
continually  day  and  night.  —  Answer:  The  surf 
on  the  reef,  whose  voice  is  never  still." 

Polynesian  Riddle.''* 


»    >      » 


THE  FAR  CRY 

CHAPTER    I 


THE   "NANTWICH":  TOWING 


"Ragotin,  ce  matin , 
A  tant  bu  de  pots  de  vin, 
Qu'il  branle,  qu'il  branle!  .  .  *  " 

So  sang  Tisdale  in  the  bow,  and  staggered  for 
fun,  while  the  schooner  staggered  in  earnest.  He 
enjoyed  himself,  watching  the  rainbow  spray  dash 
up  at  every  plunge,  and  flinging  his  words  aft  in  a 
melodious  yell.  Wallace,  at  the  wheel,  frowned. 
A  pretty  place  to  be  singing,  this  was,  aboard  a 
battered  old  sea  wagon  like  the  Nantwich.  She 
labored  along,  following  the  dirty  white  bulk  and 
dirty  black  smoke  of  the  steamer  Albay,  which 
tugged  at  her  carelessly  with  ropes  as  short  as 
when  they  left  harbor. 

"O  Rob !"  cried  the  singer.  "Look,  Wallace ! 
There  he  goes  now  1" 

3 


4  THE    FAR    CRY 

Between  them  the  deck  of  the  Nantwich  glowed 
in  the  tropic  sun,  overflowing  with  blond  hair.  A 
hundred  fair  giantesses  might  have  shorn  their 
locks  and  flung  them  recklessly  on  board  in  a 
golden  mound.  This  deckload  of  Davao  hemp  lay 
underneath  in  bales,  in  drums,  in  raveling  wefts, 
and  flowed  on  top  in  pale  tresses  nine  feet  long. 
The  morning  glare,  reflected  from  them,  struck 
into  the  belly  of  the  little  forestaysail  a  mild,  quiv- 
ering, buttercup  light.  Deck  and  cargo  swooped 
up,  swooped  down,  with  the  diagonal,  shoulder- 
first  movement  of  scending.  The  day  was  clear, 
and  blinding  bright.  The  ocean  fetched  round- 
about its  compass  of  dark,  intense,  and  luminous 
blue,  unbroken,  though  back  toward  Sarangani  a 
long  swell  ran,  slowly  and  mightily  changing  the 
floor  of  water  about  the  vessel,  now  to  a  slant  up- 
hill, now  to  a  smooth  declivity.  On  board,  blocks 
creaked  in  a  lazy  rhythm,  and  halyards  rattled  on 
a  spar. 

"Look  at  him!"  shouted  Tisdale,  waving  an 
arm  toward  the  bowsprit.  "  'A  taut  bu  de  pots  de 
vin '    Look  at  him,  Robin !" 

Wallace,  a  heavy,  dark  young  man,  sighted  for- 
ward with  a  wary  scowl.  He  saw  nothing  to  war- 
rant such  enthusiasm. 

The    Ragotin    in    this    case,    Captain    Rufino 


"NANTWICH":    TOWING        5 

Bravo,  of  the  steamer  Albay,  stood  at  the  end 
of  his  towing  hawsers,  two  hundred  feet  ahead, 
and  over  a  wake  of  blue-tinted  foam  brandished 
his  arms  like  a  puppet  enacting  sarcasm.  A  stern 
bulwark,  grimed  with  iron  rust,  alone  prevented 
him  from  reeling  into  the  Celebes  Sea.  He  waved 
on  high  a  wicker  demijohn,  and  cried  across  hiss- 
ing water  some  Spanish  mockery. 

"Wants  us  to  have  a  drink!"  Tisdale  inter- 
preted.    "Do  you  think  it  safe — try  poison?" 

Wallace  watched  the  two  hawsers  bend  upward 
in  parallel  curves,  drip  silver  points,  and  sink 
under  the  turbulent  snow  of  the  wake  ahead.  He 
made  no  answer.  Here,  on  board  the  leaky  Nant- 
wich,  was  little  room  for  joking.  Like  a  gamblers1 
table,  she  carried  half  their  fortune  at  one  throw. 
Heaped  shining  on  deck  lay  the  outcome  of  four 
years'  hard  work — four  years  of  grubbing  in  vol- 
canic soil,  watching  and  weeding  and  setting  ca- 
motes,  calculating  by  aroba  and  hectare,  cajoling 
new-planted  villages  to  work,  and  guiding  lazy 
brown  hands  to  strip  the  fiber  with  bone  loc-nit 
or  steel  bolo.  Four  years  of  learning  how — an- 
other college  course,  on  the  shores  of  Davao  Gulf; 
and  here  the  Nantwich,  towing  badly,  carried  the 
partners  and  their  first  cargo,  their  hard-won  di- 
ploma of  hemp,  toward  a  questionable  market  in 


6  THE    FAR    CRY 

Zamboanga.  She  might  sink  under  them.  Rufino, 
on  the  steamer  that  dragged  them  along,  was 
drunk  at  the  head  of  his  crew.  Was  this  a  time 
to  laugh,  a  time  to  sing? 

Tisdale  thought  it  was,  for  again  his  chant  came 
aft,  over  the  glistening,  tumbling  abaca: 

"  .  .  .  a  tant  bu  de  pots  de  vin, 
Qu'il  branle,  qiC'il  branlef" 

He  shook  both  arms  defiantly,  and  yelled  at 
Captain  Bravo,  who  shrilled  a  far-off  answer  with- 
out meaning,  waved  another  invitation  across  the 
foam,  and  then,  tilting  the  demijohn,  quaffed  long 
and  shamelessly.  A  sordid  spectacle  this  white 
midget  made,  so  busy  drinking,  in  the  face  of 
tropic  heaven  and  eternal  sea. 

"Mean  little  greaser!  Knows  we  can't  I"  Tis- 
dale shouted  back  indignantly.  "By  George,  I'll 
show  him!  Just  uphold — honor  of  white  men, 
RobT 

The  young  planter  tossed  his  helmet  on  the 
golden  hemp,  ripped  off  canvas  pumps  and  white 
jacket,  and  so,  naked  to  the  belt,  swarmed  up 
lightly  between  the  knightheads.  He  stood  poised, 
for  a  moment,  where  the  bowsprit  joined  the  apple 
bows  of  the  old  Nantwich. 


"NANTWICH":    TOWING        7 

"We'll  show  'em — save  our  face!"  he  cried. 

Even  Wallace,  who  knew  the  fellow's  quicksil- 
ver habit  of  mind,  stood  wholly  unprepared  for 
the  next  movement. 

Tisdale  sat  down  acrobatically  on  the  bulwark, 
swung  his  legs  outboard,  and,  gripping  the  tow- 
rope  that  chafed  against  his  thigh,  perched  long 
enough  to  let  a  white  blizzard  of  spray  burst  over 
him.  His  torso  gleamed  wet  like  a  merman's,  as 
the  mist  flung  its  faint,  colored  arc  of  Iris  above 
him  and  dissolved.  Then  his  back  muscles 
knotted  suddenly.  He  went  overboard.  Nothing 
appeared  of  him  but  his  hard,  round  arms  at  full 
stretch,  his  hands  plying  rapidly  down  the  curve 
of  the  starboard  hawser.  Tisdale  was  gone  over 
the  side,  on  purpose. 

"Idiot!"  cried  Wallace,  jumping  up  and  down, 
and  shaking  at  the  wheel  as  though  to  wrench  out 
the  spokes.  "Come  back  here !  Thundering  idiot ! 
Comeback!    Drowned!    Drowned  sure!" 

The  Nantwich  swooped  her  bows  down,  and 
gave  her  steersman  a  glimpse  ahead — a  clear  view 
of  the  hawser  as  it  sagged  under  glass-blue  billows. 
When  it  rose,  two  fists  came  up  on  it  from  the 
depths,  like  tiny  beads  on  a  great  string;  two  arms 
shot  stretching  out  of  the  foam,  and  then,  while 
the  rope  lifted  to  the  height  of  its  languid  curve, 


8  THE    FAR    CRY 

the  fists,  the  arms,  and  Tisdale's  dripping  head 
went  forward  briefly  and  desperately,  hand  over 
hand,  jerk  by  jerk,  clutch  after  clutch. 

"Drowned  sure!"  Wallace  repeated,  under  his 
breath.  He  gripped  the  wheel  and  stared,  angrily, 
at  this  foregone  disaster.  "Arthur!  Oh,  you 
fool!    You  fool !" 

The  hawser  bent  inexorably  down,  buried  a  wide 
segment.  It  labored  free  again,  and  there, 
through  the  hissing  white  mill  race,  Tisdale's  arms 
warped  his  merman  body  forward,  slowly  for- 
ward, to  gain  a  few  more  yards  on  the  Albay's 
wake,  and  to  leave  the  Nantwich  hurling  her  bow- 
sprit up  against  the  sunlight,  clear  of  him  now, 
and  no  longer  cutting  off  the  sight  of  his  escapade. 
He  dangled,  half  out  of  water,  like  a  wind-blown 
garment  on  a  clothesline;  then  the  hawser  dipped 
again,  soused  him  under,  pulled  him  onward  as  a 
mere  streak.  His  linen  trousers  melted  into  foam, 
the  white  soles  of  his  feet  flashed,  and  were  gone. 

It  was  impossible.  Wallace  clung  to  the  fact 
as  though  for  comfort;  it  was  impossible  that  any 
man  could  do  what  this  mad  partner  was  madly 
trying.  The  wake  of  the  Albay,  a  blue-tinted 
lacework  swirling  in  delicate  filaments,  could  tear 
the  rope  from  any  human  grasp.  Tisdale,  though 
quick  and  muscular,  was  no  young  demigod.  Who, 


"NANTWICH":   TOWING        9 

thought  Wallace,  on  sea  or  land  ever  conceived  a 
more  odd  and  useless  piece  of  folly? 

"What  for?"  His  whole  nature  revolted.  "No 
sense  in  it!    To  drown  like  that " 

In  his  anguish,  he  stamped  on  the  deck. 

"Goya !"  he  cried.    "Goya  I" 

From  the  dusk  of  the  companionway,  before 
him,  appeared  a  brown  face,  regarding  him  with- 
out speculation.  Goya,  the  deck  hand — a  grudg- 
ing loan  of  Captain  Bravo's — rose  like  a  brunette 
ghost  in  flimsy  cotton,  his  dark,  soft  eyes  not  even 
blinking  as  he  shuffled  out  on  the  glaring  deck.  He 
thrust  carefully  into  his  breast  pocket  the  symbols 
of  a  racial  vanity — his  horn  comb  and  his  little 
tin-bound  mirror — and  stood  pouting.  His  heavy 
lips,  flat  Malayan  face,  and  stiff,  black  hair  all 
on  end  from  an  hour's  combing,  gave  his  head  a 
funny  predominance  over  his  frail  body,  which 
seemed  yet  frailer  as  the  white  cotton  clothing  shiv- 
ered in  the  breeze. 

"Here,  Goya !"  Wallace  gnashed  at  him. 
"Wake  up,  and  take  the  wheel !" 

Goya  obeyed  half  of  this  command  by  moving 
aft  to  rest  both  hands  and  one  bare  foot  limply  on 
the  spokes,  like  a  supercilious  invalid. 

"Lay  hold,"  said  Wallace  darkly,  "or  I'll  lay 
open  that  big,  empty  cabeza!" 


io  THE    FAR    CRY 

Without  watching  his  threat  home,  the  planter 
peeled  off  his  jacket,  leaped  away  forward,  sprang 
up  on  the  nearest  bale,  and  went  scrambling  and 
falling  over  the  blond  hillocks  of  hemp.  When 
at  last  he  floundered  into  the  bow,  he  had  lost  not 
only  his  helmet  and  his  temper,  but  all  track  of 
his  companion's  progress. 

Then  he  saw  clear  of  the  bowsprit,  and  stood 
glowering  with  anxiety. 

Some  caprice  of  the  ocean  swell  had  so  caught 
the  A  lb  ay  and  the  Nantivich  that  their  heavy  tow- 
ropes  now  stretched  high  above  the  foam.  Swing- 
ing under  the  lower  hawser,  gripping  it  with  hands 
and  feet,  Tisdale  slid  into  the  halfway  curve  of 
his  journey,  waited  there  for  breath,  like  a  glisten- 
ing white  sloth  bunched  under  a  bough,  and  im- 
mediately, with  fresh  vigor,  began  climbing  the 
forward  slant,  topsy-turvy  on  all  fours. 

"Buenof  Ha-ha!  Bueno!"  Applause  flew  in 
shrill  fragments  against  the  breeze.  The  Albay's 
crew  had  run  crowding  into  her  stern,  their  brown 
faces  all  a-grin.    "Animo!    Ha-ha  !" 

Toward  them  the  gymnast  figure  labored  con- 
vulsively up  the  curve  of  the  hawser,  shinning  like 
a  toy  monkey  on  a  string.  A  dozen  white-clad 
arms  reached  down,  grappled  for  him.  And  just 
as  Wallace  concluded  that  the  feat  might  be  pos- 


"NANTWICH":    TOWING      n 

sible,  after  all,  Tisdale  went  sprawling  over  the 
distant  bulwark,  yanked  aboard  the  steamer. 

The  crew  buzzed  over  him ;  laughter  came  spill- 
ing back  to  the  Nantwich.  Among  the  stunted 
aliens,  Tisdale's  wet  body  gleamed  like  a  statue; 
he  waved  a  naked  arm,  shouted  back  some  breath- 
less impertinence,  and,  turning  away,  rounded  the 
bulge  of  the  deck  house.  Captain  Rufino  Bravo 
slapped  him  between  the  shoulders  as  he  disap- 
peared.   The  midget  mariners  trooped  after. 

"Got  there!"  growled  Wallace,  alone  in  the 
bows  of  the  schooner.  "Fool  thing  to  do.  Just 
like  you.     Featherbrain!"  _\' 

The  deserted  partner  shook  his  fist  at  the  Ah 
bay,  and  flung  down  a  coil  of  rope  he  had 
snatched  up.  Though  a  poor  swimmer,  he  had 
been  ready  to  jump  over. 

"Just  you  wait,  my  buck !  Wait  till  you're  back 
aboard  here!" 

Muttering  hot  but  vague  revenge,  the  young 
man  carefully  collected  his  friend's  coat  and  hel- 
met, recovered  his  own,  and  climbed  aft  over  the 
bright  bales  of  hemp. 

Goya  hung  on  his  wheel,  and  dozed. 

"Lively  shipmate  you  are,"  growled  his  cap- 
tain, "for  a  long  voyage !" 

Like  a  sleeper  half  waking,  Goya  rolled  a  pair 


12  THE    FAR    CRY 

of  eyes  duller  than  brown  glass,  chose  another 
spoke  for  his  toes  to  rest  on,  and  relaxed  afresh. 

"Fine  company,"  muttered  Wallace.  He 
dragged  a  rattan  garden  stool  to  the  foot  of  the 
main  shrouds,  where  palm  thatch,  raised  on  bam- 
boo stilts,  made  a  scant  awning  or  open  hut,  as 
if  a  piece  of  jungle  architecture  had  run  away  to 
sea.  Here  he  sat  down  in  shade,  and  stared  mo- 
rosely at  the  swinging  water. 

The  color  of  it — a  blue  that  glowed  and  yearned 
like  the  inwards  of  a  dark  jewel — lay  everywhere 
the  same  under  vertical  noonday.  Thin,  sallow 
vapor,  far  off  to  starboard  and  trailing  far  astern, 
tinged  the  north  horizon  where  Mindanao  floated, 
a  mere  exhalation  of  land.  Ahead,  the  Albay 
slouched  through  the  sea,  dragging  a  foul  bottom 
at  five  knots,  and  besmuttering  the  southern  heaven 
with  coal  smoke.  These  things,  the  brilliant  cheve- 
lure  of  the  hemp,  its  reflection  quivering  in  the  tiny 
staysail,  were  all  that  could  seize  an  eye  jaded 
with  sunlight.  The  steamer  puffed  laboriously  but 
faintly,  blocks  creaked  aloft,  halyards  rattled  a 
drowsy  measure,  and  under  these  few  sounds  ran 
the  steady,  hushing  whisper  of  foam,  quietly  com- 
manding silence.  Time  slipped  away  like  a  word 
forgotten.  Sight  and  sound,  thought,  life  itself, 
dissolved  into  an  ocean  reverie. 


"NANTWICH":    TOWING      13 

Wallace,  under  his  jungle  roof,  crooked  one 
elbow  on  the  rail,  pillowed  his  chin  there,  and 
watched  Mindanao  drag  its  sallow  haze  farther 
astern.  He  recalled  his  last  fortnight  on  that 
shore;  how  the  hemp  they  slaved  for  had  lain 
there,  useless;  how,  by  strange  luck,  and  Tisdale's 
madcap  bargaining,  they  had  secured  the  Nant- 
wich,  only  to  find,  as  an  afterthought,  that  no  pair 
of  landlubbers  could  sail  her;  how  Tisdale  again, 
by  another  stroke  of  policy,  had  won  Captain  Ru- 
fino,  had  sat  all  night  carousing  with  that  sulky 
officer,  and  wormed  out  the  promise  of  a  tow. 
It  was  Tisdale  who,  like  a  Paul  Revere  hilarious 
in  pajamas,  had  run  through  the  village  at  cock- 
crow and  set  all  hands  toiling  by  daybreak,  hurl- 
ing their  precious  cargo  from  pantalan  to  schoon- 
er's deck.  Tisdale,  yes,  Tisdale  could  do  anything, 
offhand,  just  as  now  he  could  desert,  leave  a  chap 
on  board  here  through  the  voyage,  with  this  som- 
nambulist Goya  for  company!  Vexation  ran  up- 
permost through  the  final  waking  thoughts  of  Wal- 
lace; vexation,  and  a  last,  dull  glimpse,  under 
drooping  eyelashes,  of  something  low  and  black 
upon  the  northwest  horizon.  Some  funereal  blot, 
vague,  yet  solid;  a  mountain,  it  might  be,  rearing 
above  the  hidden  coast.  It  did  not  seem  to  mean 
much,  as  he  fell  asleep. 


14  THEFARCRY 

He  woke  lonely  and  febrile,  after  the  fashion 
of  tropical  sleepers  by  day.     A  voice  startled  him. 

"O  Robin!  Make  fast,  there's  a  good  fellow! 
On  deck!    What  ails  you?" 

Tisdale's  voice  rose  from  below,  close  at  hand. 
Alongside,  though  farther  off,  the  Albay  lay  wal- 
lowing, so  that  the  two  ships,  with  their  tether 
hauled  bow  and  stern  between  them,  formed  a 
rude  letter  N  upon  the  face  of  the  waters.  It  was 
the  face  of  those  waters,  the  new,  disastrous  coun- 
tenance of  the  whole  world,  that  fetched  Wallace 
out  from  his  hut,  tottering,  but  awake. 

His  black  mountain,  viewed  so  lately  through 
a  fading  dream,  now  came  rushing  toward  him 
in  one  sheer  wall  of  darkness,  a  crag  of  storm 
cloud  that  towered  from  ocean  floor  to  zenith. 
Sulphurous  gleams  passed  through  it,  and  revealed 
great  downpours  of  sheeted  rain,  heavy  as  gravel. 
The  ocean  beneath  leaped  in  small,  joggling  waves, 
like  blue  ink  shaken  in  a  basin.  On  the  verge  of 
the  storm,  high  overhead,  the  sun  poised  as  on 
a  cliff,  gave  to  half  the  sea  and  sky  one  farewell 
moment  of  golden  summer  calm,  and  was  blown 
out. 

"O  Rob!  Look  alive!"  cried  the  voice  of  Tis- 
dale.  "Catch  our  painter,  there's  a  good  chap! 
These  beasts  are  jumping  crazy  down  here." 


"N  ANT  WICH":    TOWING      15 

In  the  gloom,  a  loose  bight  of  rope  wriggled 
across  the  deck  and  up  over  the  bulwark,  like  a 
snake.  Wallace  trod  on  its  tail,  hauled  in,  and 
made  it  fast.  He  looked  overside,  to  find  his 
friend  already  shinning  toward  him,  up  from  a 
boat  where  brown  Tagalogs  were  yelling,  snatch- 
ing at  the  painter,  spearing  the  schooner  madly 
with  their  oars,  fighting  to  stave  off  and  to  be 
gone. 

"Swine!  Swine,  all  of  'em!"  Tisdale  grunted, 
hooking  his  leg  over  and  rolling  on  deck.  He 
jumped  afoot,  to  cast  loose  the  painter.  "T'ake  it, 
then!n 

He  flung  down  the  end  among  the  frantic  oars- 
men. While  he  did  so,  somebody  sprang  to  the 
rail  beside  him,  and,  with  a  piteous  bleat  of  terror, 
hopped  into  the  air.  Goya,  the  sleep-walker,  had 
rejoined  his  countrymen  below.  His  body  thumped 
on  the  stern  thwart,  his  well-combed  head  on  a 
gunwale.  As  he  landed,  so  he  lay,  while  the  oars- 
men, shouting  and  catching  crabs,  lashed  away 
desperately  toward  the  Albay. 

"I  gave  'em  ten  pesos,"  Tisdale  complained,  uto 
fetch  me  back  to  you,  Rob !" 

The  runagate  slipped  into  his  jacket,  let  it  go 
unbuttoned,  and,  standing  thus  in  comfortable  dis- 
order, seemed  to  expect  a  reply.    In  the  strange  ob- 


16  THE    FAR    CRY 

scurity  that  overhung  the  ship — a  kind  of  Resur- 
rection darkness — he  had  a  wild  and  elfish  look, 
an  air  of  being  carelessly  at  home.  His  eager, 
sunburned  face,  his  light-blue  eyes  twinkling,  his 
tousled  crop  of  yellow  hair,  were  the  brightest 
things  on  board.  His  tunic  flapped  open,  baring 
his  chest  as  if  in  bravado. 

"Ten  pesos,"  he  repeated,  "to  get  back  with 
you,  Rob  I" 

Wallace  had  sourly  taken  the  wheel. 

"Ass!"  he  grumbled.    "You  came  near  getting 

to "      He   turned   his   thumb    down    grimly. 

"Fool's  trick.    Ten  pesos?    Who  made  you  go?' 

Tisdale  gave  a  repentant  shrug. 

"I  know,"  he  answered,  "it  was  silly.  Didn't 
benefit  the  firm,  after  all.  That  goat  Bravo" — he 
waved  an  arm  at  the  gray  loom  of  the  Albay — 
"Barcelona  goat!  Pleased  as  Billy,  he  seemed, 
when  I  first  boarded  him.  Then  he  turned  peevish, 
and  wagged  his  black  scut  at  me.  Wouldn't  hear 
reason.  Delays  him,  he  said  towing  us  here. 
'Against  my  owners'  orders,'  he  kept  bawling,  and 
all  the  time  too  drunk  to  swear,  even."  Tisdale 
paused,  and  his  face  grew  more  serious.  "I  tell 
you,  Robin,  I  don't  like  it.  This" — the  speaker 
took  deliberate  survey  of  the  darkness — "this 
turned  Bravo  green  in  the  face.     Wall-eyed,  he 


"NANTWICH":    TOWING      17 

was,  when  I  left ;  sick  man — a  little  sick  goat,  with 
a  black  beard,  talking  nonsense.  Most  unholy 
right." 

Over  the  helm,  the  two  partners  eyed  each  other 
strangely. 

"Bravo'll  do  us  dirt,  you  mean?"  inquired  Wal- 
lace. 

"Can't  say,  Robin.', 

They  remained  silent. 

The  schooner  quivered  like  a  frightened  horse. 
Her  staysail  hung  dead  and  wrinkled,  in  a  hot 
calm.  Puny  waves  jumped  everywhere  about  her 
flanks,  chopping,  plashing,  ejecting  spitefully,  with 
a  reverse  twist,  little  gouts  of  white  spray.  From 
the  approaching  central  darkness  a  cool  draft, 
moist  and  gentle,  swept  away  all  hint  of  sea  air, 
bringing  instead  the  languid  smell  of  fresh  water, 
a  somber,  myterious  perfume  as  of  torn  verdure 
and  trampled  earth.  Here  on  the  sea,  out  of 
place,  it  caught  the  nostrils  with  a  kind  of  threat. 

"She's  coming !    groaned  Wallace. 

A  gust  whirled  over  them  while  he  spoke.  His 
roof  of  palm  thatch  beat  violently  against  the 
shrouds,  then  soared  aloft,  and  with  two  bamboo 
legs  trailing  storkwise,  flapped  away  into  the  black 
heavens. 

"She's  here!"  cried  Tisdale,  and  ran  to  help. 


18  THE    FAR    CRY 

They  felt  the  schooner  balk,  spring  backward, 
jerk  her  tether;  saw  the  staysail  belly  inside  out, 
and  a  few  pale  streamers  of  hemp  whisk  past  them 
overhead,  like  the  tails  of  Valkyrie  horses  riding 
the  tempest;  and  next  moment  were  conscious  only 
of  a  wheel  fighting  them,  a  wet,  smarting  blind- 
ness, and,  instead  of  breath,  a  taste  of  rain  water 
in  their  mouths.  Underfoot,  the  frail  craft  tossed 
and  hung  and  pivoted,  crashed  into  a  sudden  hol- 
low, swerved  uphill  again,  and  poised  in  air. 
Snowy  blurs  went  fleeting  past,  behind  a  black-and- 
silver  mesh  of  rain. 

All  this  the  two  men  endured  for  a  long  time; 
but  what  grew  insupportable  was  a  wide  roar  that 
swelled  beyond  the  limit  of  hearing,  and  stupefied 
them  by  mere  volume. 

Wallace  felt  a  craving  for  speech.  He  tried  to 
gratify  it,  but  his  words  flew  down  the  wind  like 
bubbles.  Without  hearing  himself,  he  cried  re- 
peatedly: 

"Hemp  ruined!    All " 

His  friend's  lips  fumbled  at  his  ear,  his  friend's 
laughter  rang  from  a  distance : 

"Good  boy! Guessed  right! So  are 

we!" 

The  levity  of  the  message,  in  all  this  turmoil, 
shocked  him  grievously.       He  would  have  bel- 


UNANTWICH":    TOWING      19 

lowed  some  rebuke,  but  the  hurrying  noises  gave 
him  no  leisure  to  frame  one. 

"Look!"  Again  Tisdale's  voice  reached  him, 
light,  weak,  infinitely  far  away,  like  something  in 
a  fever.    "Look  there  I" 

The  rain  had  forked  asunder,  leaving  the  whole 
ship  visible,  for  a  moment,  in  greenish  twilight. 
Forward,  the  rigid  hawsers  pierced  a  line  of  gal- 
loping whiteness,  which  broke  and  left  them  to 
bridge  a  void.  Sharp,  smoking  crests  cut  off  their 
farther  end.  Night  grimly  closed  the  vista  in  a 
whirl.  Yet,  on  its  very  rim,  there  lifted  and  sank 
the  gray,  squablike  buttocks  of  the  dlbay,  on 
which  gray  human  specks  clustered  and  dimly 
toiled. 

"See  these,  see  there !"  piped  the  voice  of  Tis- 
dale.  "Hawsers,  Rob — casting  off  !  Bravo's  men 
— I  thought  so.  Beast!  Loose,  Robin,  we're 
loose!" 

The  rain  flung  together  its  parted  curtain.  The 
Nantwich  recoiled,  gave  one  twisting  lurch,  and, 
with  her  deck  at  a  steep  angle,  slewed  down  a 
vast,  unseen  hill. 

The  friends  clung  to  their  wheel,  and  kicked  the 
empty  air.  Their  footing  came  back  from  one 
direction  to  be  lost  in  another,  as  the  Nantwich 
righted  and  hurled  herself  toward  some  new  quar- 


20  THEFARCRY 

ter  of  the  heavens  above  or  the  waters  under  the 
earth. 

The  last  thing  clearly  seen  was  a  vision  of  the 
staysail  exploding,  like  a  bomb  filled  with  dirty 
rags. 


CHAPTER    II 


THE  "NANTWICH"   !    LOOSE 


Death — who  on  land  in  peace-time  steals  about 
silent  and  modest,  like  a  murderer  among  decent 
people — enjoys  at  sea  his  true,  shameless  charac- 
ter, with  elbowroom  and  playtime.  Here  on  the 
waters  in  darkness,  the  young  men  saw  and  felt  his 
magnitude,  heard  him  roaring  at  them,  and  roar- 
ing again,  dealing  shock  after  shock,  and  filling 
with  his  eternal  voice  the  frame  and  vault  of 
things.  Death  caroused  at  home,  where  the  in- 
trusion of  Life,  in  their  persons,  meant  no  more 
than  if  two  ants  were  creeping  on  the  floor  of  a 
drunken  giant's  hall.  They  felt  this,  vividly  at 
first,  then  dimly,  for  thought  departed  from  them, 
left  but  a  residue  of  sensation,  or  came  and  went 
like  the  rope  which — as  they  were  lashing  the 
wheel — now  wrapped  and  fouled  their  legs,  now 
washed  away  into  oblivion. 

"The  rigging  I"  they  cried.    "Up  to  it !" 

21 


22  THE    FAR    CRY 

How  they  gained  the  starboard  ratlines,  through 
that  sudden,  howling  night,  neither  man  could  re- 
call; but  each  remembered  their  crucifixion  aloft, 
the  sluice  of  cold  rain,  their  gyration  with  the 
mainmast  in  giddy  rise  and  tumble  and  butt-end 
blow,  as  if  they  were  bound  to  a  pile  driver  with- 
out guides. 

They  heard  many  noises,  but  all  were  tones  of 
that  world-wide  voice  roaring.  They  saw  one 
sight,  gusty  upheavals  of  smoke  whiter  than  mar- 
ble dust,  below,  that  silently  rose  at  them  through 
the  black  net  of  the  rain,  drove  past,  and  vanished. 
These  must  have  been  waves. 

Like  the  staysail,  time  itself  blew  away.  The 
men  measured  it  by  aches  and  pains,  by  the  recur- 
ring need  to  shift  their  bodies,  to  unhook  and  re- 
hook  an  arm  when  the  biceps,  pinched  by  a  ratline, 
gave  out.  Once,  another  lull  or  "hole"  breaking 
the  rain,  they  saw  a  kind  of  muddy,  final  daylight. 
The  sea  wallowed  in  black  edges  that  ripped  into 
spray,  and  a  snowbank,  blowing  over  the  bowsprit, 
shot  high  in  vertical  sheets.  The  last  of  their 
cargo  whirled  off,  seething;  tangles  of  hemp 
gleamed  in  a  somber  valley  of  water,  as  if  a  tre- 
mendous woman  lay  drowning,  while  her  hair 
floated.  Then  that  blond  head  swept  over  one 
of  the  hills,  and  was  gone. 


"NANTWICH":    LOOSE        23 

A  night,  a  day,  another  night — all  seemed  a 
mad  procrastination  of  the  end,  a  needless  and 
wretched  vigilance  called  Life.  Day  was  full  of 
waves  that  slowly  departed,  fading  and  swinging 
gray  and  fading,  until  black  tumult  came  again. 

"It  breaks!"  Tisdale  shouted,  at  one  time.  "It 
breaks!" 

He  raised  his  head,  which  lay  under  Wallace's 
armpit  on  their  tarry  gridiron.  His  face  was  dead 
white,  with  charred  spots  for  eyes. 

"The  moon,  Rob !" 

Beyond  some  flying  tangle  of  cordage  a  pale 
crescent  pierced  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  and  van- 
ished. 

"Wind's  going  down,"  groaned  Wallace. 

He  spoke  truly.  Nevertheless,  at  sickening 
speed,  the  moon  coursed  over  them  from  wrack  to 
wrack.  Her  shape  resembled  the  blade  of  a  chop- 
ping knife:  that,  the  men  thought,  was  why  she 
cut  so  easily  those  ponderous  edges  of  cloud,  rag- 
ged and  shining,  like  bright  solder  spattered  on 
iron  seams. 

They  let  her  fly  along  with  the  rest  of  the  night- 
mare. 


CHAPTER    III 


THE    FLYTRAP 


The  cabin  floor  was  a  puddle  of  dirty  froth, 
swashing  from  side  to  side,  or  fore  and  aft.  The 
cabin  ceiling — white  paint  studded  thickly  with 
flies  like  tacks  driven  at  random — was  crossed  and 
recrossed  by  a  similar  unrest,  as  bright,  new-risen 
sunshine  performed  the  same  antics  at  the  same 
moment.  In  this  interior,  tight  as  a  drum,  every 
creaking  timber  and  knee  of  the  Nantwich  found 
its  echo,  except  when,  regular  and  leisurely,  wave 
after  wave  boomed  without  or  sent  its  deeper  thrill 
running  within. 

Amid  all  this  gambol  of  light  and  sound  the  two 
men  lay  sleeping  in  one  bunk,  "spoon  fashion," 
with  a  wet  blanket  over  them. 

"Oh,  the  devil!" 

Tisdale  raised  his  head.  His  blue  eyes  fol- 
lowed vacantly  the  sunshine  that  reveled  across 
the  white  boards  above,  that  darted  through  the 

24 


THE    FLYTRAP  25 

skylight  and  the  little  prison  windows,  balanced, 
wriggling  with  a  hundred  smoky  wave  shadows, 
and  then,  as  the  schooner  rolled,  darted  outdoors 
again. 

"What's  the  matter  ?" 

Tisdale  continued  to  stare  upward. 

"This  bedding."  he  answered  dreamily.  "It 
smells  of  garlic;  our  predecessor.  Vile — foh! 
Robin,  I  say,  we  must  be  alive  yet,  because  we 
grumble.  Good  sign.  Can  you  feel  your  legs, 
though?    Neither  can  I.    Bad  sign." 

Foul  water  splashed  across  the  floor,  the  sea 
fired  its  muffled  cannon,  the  sunrise  light  fumed 
overhead  like  burning  tar. 

"And  I  was  thinking,"  Tisdale  went  on  wearily. 
"These  flies."  He  squinted  at  the  black  dots  on 
the  ceiling.  "Poor  devils  o'  Moro  flies!  We 
brought  'em  all  the  way  from  Davao  province,  to 
drown  out  here.    Shut  in.    Seems  a  pity." 

Wallace,  lifting  his  head  in  turn,  regarded  them 
with  hollow  apathy. 

"Not  drowned  yet,"  he  declared.  "And  the 
sea's  going  down.  Else  we'd  be  up  in  that  rigging, 
Arthur." 

The  planters  moaned,  and  said  no  more.  Their 
descent  from  the  mainmast — that  agony  of  crawl- 
ing— still  ached  in  their  bones,  with  a  cold  pang. 


26  THE    FAR    CRY 

"If  she  goes  down,"  Wallace  mumbled,  after 
long  reflection,  "if  she  goes,  I  don't  like  being 
cooped M 

His  bedfellow  stretched  a  hand  past  him,  to 
point  at  the  ceiling  hobnailed  with  sleeping  Hies. 

"See  here,  Rob.  They  don't  mind."  Tisdale's 
voice  died  away,  content.  "Outdoors  or  in,  thy 
let  her  wallop.  We  can  do  that  much.  No  sailors, 
but  all  the  same "  He  waved  upward  con- 
soling fingers.  "You  flies,  we'll  fetch  you  through. 
Topside  galow.    You  wait  and  see." 

Until  noon  the  flies  obeyed.  No  one  could 
strike  eight  bells  for  them;  the  groaning  vessel 
kept  her  own  watch,  alone  on  a  sea  that  smoked 
and  rioted  under  heavens  calm,  brilliant,  without 
a  cloud.  But  when  midday  heated  the  cabin  like 
a  stove  the  flies  thawed,  began  to  crawl  over  the 
skylight,  fell  from  the  ceiling,  flew  about,  danced 
in  the  reflected  gleam  of  waves,  fought  an  airy 
sham  battle,  and  one  after  another  went  winging 
back  to  their  pestered  bed  on  the  ceiling. 

The  men  slept  like  a  pair  of  twins.  At  sunset, 
crimson  light  throbbed  in  through  the  little  win- 
dows, failed  out,  and  throbbed  in,  till  night  closed 
the  red  eye  of  the  world.  The  planters  rolled  in 
their  sleep. 

Next   morning   found   them   awake    outdoors, 


THE    FLYTRAP  27 

dry  clad,  comfortably  fed,  but  not  hopeful.  They 
stood  on  deck  together  in  torrid  light,  puckering 
their  eyes  to  follow  the  behavior  of  their  ship. 

Tl  e  Nantwich  had  ridden  out  the  gale,  for  she 
floated  on  a  falling  sea  hardly  more  dangerous 
than  a  lake  full  of  whitecaps ;  but  her  survival  was 
a  desolate  thing  to  behold.  She  rode  very  deep 
and  dogged,  her  bows  low,  jib  boom  gone,  cap  and 
stick,  from  a  splintered  bowsprit.  She  took  the 
slap  of  each  wave  indifferent  as  a  rock.  A  kelp- 
like tangle  of  hawsers  went  straying  everywhere. 
Through  a  breach  in  the  port  bulwark  forward — 
bitten  out  flush  with  the  deck — the  sea  continually 
slopped  without  effort,  and  ran  aft  in  thin  layers 
creaming  like  ale.  A  few  last  wads  of  hemp 
tumbled  back  and  forth  as  old  sponges  tumble  on 
a  beach.  Wooden  slats  glided  along  with  them, 
wooden  staves,  the  white  shards  of  a  boat  dashed 
clean  out  of  her  davits  and  scattered  piecemeal. 
The  schooner  was  all  raffle.  Her  masts  leaned, 
her  motion  had  a  fatal  heaviness.  She  floated,  but 
only  as  a  sick  charwoman  might  crawl  home,  hav- 
ing caught  her  death  and  ruined  her  little  finery 
in  a  downpour. 

"There's  a  piece  of  luck,  Rob  !n 

The  two  friends,  conning  their  ship,  were  spick 
and  span.     A  camphor  chest,  below,  packed  for 


28  THE    FAR    CRY 

Zamboanga,  held  all  their  best  clothing,  so  that 
now  they  wore  clean,  white  trousers,  rolled  knee- 
high;  white  tunics,  silver-buttoned  with  the  coun- 
terfeit ticals  that  landsmen  buy;  and,  topping  all, 
in  lieu  of  helmets  blown  away,  two  fresh  turkey- 
red  bandannas  folded  closely  to  keep  off  sunstroke. 
Barbaric  barefoot  dandies,  the  pair  seemed,  who 
might  have  strolled  aboard  in  curiosity. 

"Pay  my  look-see,"  scoffed  Wallace.  "Where's 
your  luck?" 

"Near  enough,"  replied  his  companion,  "to  bite 
you." 

On  the  cabin  roof  a  small,  black  dinghy  lay  up- 
side down.  The  lightest  of  clinker-built  boats,  it 
rested  there  whole  and  sound;  the  greedy  storm 
had  overlooked  a  thing  so  humble,  after  wrench- 
ing it  from  under  heavy  canvas  gripes,  and  toss- 
ing it  there. 

"That  ?"  Wallace  retorted  bitterly.  "Yes ;  great 
slice  of  luck,  that  boat!" 

Tisdale,  an  affable  blond  pirate  in  his  head 
bandage,  appeared  somewhat  hurt. 

"The  boat's  a  good  boat,"  he  protested.  "One 
more  shove,  and  the  sea  could  have  jackstrawed 
her  like  the  other.  But  there  she  lies.  Not  luck? 
What  do  you  call  it?" 

Wallace  turned,  in  a  passion  of  despondency. 


THE    FLYTRAP  29 

"What  do  I  call  it?"  he  cried.  "A  joke,  that's 
all;  a  poison-mean  little  joke."  He  struck  the 
boat  with  his  fist.  "Tell  me — you  stand  there 
mighty  chipper — tell  me,  what  good  on  God's 
ocean  can  that  pack  of  clapboards  do  us?"  Moved 
beyond  his  habit,  Wallace  flung  a  gesture  hotly  at 
the  sea.  "Charts?  You  saw  them  below  there; 
the  charts  leave  off,  quit  us  dead,  somewhere  to 
north  of  Caraga.  Suppose  they  didn't,  suppose 
we  had  'em  all ;  can  you  navigate  ?  Can  I  ?  Here 
we  are,  blown  away,  without  sense  enough  to  know 
where.  Mainsail's  a  bundle  of  rags  tied  up — was 
when  you  bought  her.  And  you  have  the  face, 
Arthur,  to  stand  out  there  in  the  middle  of  noth- 
ing, and  carry  on  cheerful  about  a  silly  rowboat 
the  bigness  of  a  teacup !" 

He  broke  off,  convinced  and  fortified  in  his 
wrath. 

"I  know,  old  boy."  Tisdale  had  a  downcast 
air,  and  answered  gravely.  Looking  askance  and 
laying    his    hand    almost    timidly    on    Wallace's 

arm "I  know,"  he  repeated.     "And,  what's 

worse,  I  dragged  you  into  this  mess." 

As  if  to  strike  a  blow,  Wallace  wheeled. 

"Oh,  rot!"  he  cried,  glaring  mortal  offence, 
and  with  his  dark  features  working  strangely. 
"Do  you  think  I'm  that  kind?" 


3o  THEFARCRY 

Their  eyes  met,  the  explosion  was  over.  The 
friends  had  cleared  their  atmosphere,  and  could 
face  difficulty  with  a  better  heart.  They  stood 
silent,  considering  the  wreckage  at  their  feet,  the 
bright  morning  sky  overhead.  Without  a  wisp  of 
cloud  or  vapor,  the  tropic  sun  mounted  straight  on 
high,  to  restore  all  the  glowing  color  of  the  sea. 
From  the  northwest  fluttered  a  moist  breeze,  hot, 
yet  mild,  which  followed  the  course  of  the  late 
storm  like  a  puny  clerical  spirit  trying  to  expiate 
the  mob  violence  of  devils. 

"Well?"  Tisdale  ventured.  "Let's  clean  her 
up.  See,  Rob,  weVe  got  a  foresail,  anyhow.  Set 
that,  head  somewhere  east,  and  chance  it.  I  don't 
know  where  we  are,  but,  keeping  easterly,  there's 
Karakalong,  Taruna,  Siao,  Makaleha,  what's-her- 
name,  and  Cabio.  Rafts  of  islands  that  side,  so 
thick  you  couldn't  punch  a  knife  blade  between  'em. 
Come  now  I  What's  the  word,  old  Crusty  ?  Clean 
up,  and  head  east?" 

The  fellow's  eyes  brightened,  as  if  his  bare 
string  of  names  were  magic,  to  summon  land  out 
of  the  distance.  Wallace  gave  him  no  reply,  ex- 
cept a  puzzled  stare;  could  he  never  see  things, 
this  partner,  as  they  really  were — not  even  feel 
the  ship  dead  underfoot — or  was  he  avoiding  the 
plainest  fact? 


THE    FLYTRAP  31 

"Good."  Wallace  nodded,  threw  off  his  white 
jacket,  and,  stalking  into  the  waist  of  the  vessel, 
tossed  overboard  the  first  ruin  that  came  to  hand. 
"We'll  work  the  old  packet,"  he  cried  sourly,  "till 
she  drops  apart.  But  no  more  of  your  silver  lin- 
ings, mind  you,  they  make  me  sick !" 

This  might  have  been  the  last  word,  the  order 
of  the  day;  for,  although  both  partners  worked 
hard,  body  to  body,  sweating  and  grunting  under 
the  glare  of  noon,  they  quarreled  no  more  about 
theory.  What  commands  they  had  to  give,  take, 
or  dispute,  dealt  altogether  with  hot  and  heavy 
practice.  They  cleared  the  schooner,  spiked  up 
a  double  gallows  tree  in  place  of  the  broken  davit, 
and  slung  the  remaining  boat  there;  patched  and 
ran  up  a  black  rag  of  headsail  on  a  stay  which 
threatened  to  part  from  the  bowsprit  stump ;  and, 
pulling  on  one  rope  like  the  Ancient  Mariner  and 
his  nephew,  together  hoisted  the  foresail  without 
speech. 

When  they  had  finished,  put  on  their  jackets, 
mopped  their  heads,  retied  their  scarlet  kerchiefs, 
and  taken  charge  at  the  wheel,  they  found  a 
breathing  space,  but  still  no  mood  for  talk.  Hes- 
perian light  covered  the  ocean  from  far  astern — 
air  and  water  forming  one  great  golden  peace. 
The  Nantwich,  m  the  midst,  appeared  a  miracle 


32  THE    FAR    CRY 

of  human  impudence,  like  a  rowdy  cab  that  should 
trundle  down  the  chief  street  of  heaven.  Yet  even 
the  Nantwich  caught  some  transfiguring  touch,  for 
her  aged  spars  burned  red  as  copper,  her  slate- 
colored  foresail  was  tinged  with  lilac.  A  few  long 
wrinkles  flawed  the  mirror  beneath  her  flanks,  and 
alone  betrayed  her  motion. 

It  was  the  sunset  hour,  at  sea;  a  good  time  for 
talking  confidences,  and  the  best  place.  But  the 
two  young  men  at  the  wheel  found  never  a  word  to 
exchange.  With  secret,  embarrassed  glances  they 
watched  each  other,  and  waited. 

Tisdale  turned  his  head,  to  look  astern.  Wal- 
lace, holding  the  spokes,  copied  him  slowly,  with 
an  air  of  expectation.  And  yet  neither  began 
speaking. 

The  sun  lowered,  veiling  in  haze,  touched  with 
his  lower  limb  the  western  sea  line,  floated  there, 
and,  swollen  with  hot  refraction,  took  the  form 
of  a  Chinese  paper  lantern,  fat,  oblate,  and  blood- 
red. 

"What  was  it,  Arthur ?" 

"I  didn't  speak,"  answered  Tisdale,  standing 
at  gaze. 

Wallace  frowned,  then  tried  again : 

"What  were  you  thinking?" 

The  other  came  back  to  close  quarters,  but  only 


THE    FLYTRAP  33 

to  be  lost  in  meditation,  his  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the 
companionway. 

"I  was  wondering,"  he  said,  "about  that  flytrap 
again."  He  nodded  at  the  cabin.  "Those  poor, 
misguided  insects  down  there.  Queer  how  a  trifle 
sticks    in    one's    head.      Wonder    what    they'll 

do "    Tisdale  suddenly  faced  his  partner  with 

a  look  of  defiance.  "What  will  they  do,  Robin, 
when  she  goes  down?" 

Wallace  laughed  in  his  throat — a  gruff,  satis- 
fied laugh. 

"Thought  you'd  come  to  that,  Arthur."  He 
smiled,  welcoming  this  frankness,  after  silence  and 
evasion  all  day.  "Cat's  out  of  the  bag.  She's 
going  down;  you  said  it.  There's  no  steeve  to  her 
bowsprit  any  more.  See  for  yourself."  Like  any 
other  taciturn  man  given  headway,  Wallace 
warmed  to  his  subject.  "She's  going  down  pop — 
strained  a  butt  or  something.  Your  flies  can  look 
after  themselves;  they  have  wings.  But  you  and 
I,  and  that  boat  of  yours,  that  half  a  pound  of 
good  fortune  there — mafeesh,  finish !  /  don't  pro- 
pose to  pump  all  night,  for  the  pleasure  of  drown- 
ing good  and  tired.  Pump  till  you're  black  in  the 
face,  she's  a  goner." 

Tisdale  remained  gazing  at  the  cabin  sorrow- 
fully.   He  delayed  answering. 


34  THEFARCRY 

"Ugly  speech,  that  was,"  he  said  at  last,  with- 
out lifting  his  eyes.  "Ugly,  Rob,  the  sound  of  it. 
Did  I  ever  pretend  the  schooner  wouldn't  sink? 
A  man  might  fancy  you  were  sinking  her  yourself, 
the  notion  does  you  so  much  good !" 

Wallace  reached  over  clumsily,  caught  his  hand, 
and  wrung  it. 

"Arthur,"  he  mumbled,  "so  long  as  we  float,  I'll 
rub  you  the  wrong  way.  Don't  mind  me,  will 
you?" 

The  sun  pulled  under  water  his  fiery  arc.  Above 
and  below  his  last  gleam,  flakes  of  red  slowly  van- 
ished. The  ocean  became  a  lustrous  indigo,  and 
this,  in  turn,  a  black,  softer  than  charcoal  dust. 
When  the  two  shipmates  turned  from  watching  its 
dark  solemnity,  they  found  evening  mounted  in 
the  eastern  sky.  A  white  young  moon  hung  aloft, 
frail  as  a  shred  of  wool,  yet  dropping  little,  hard 
reflections  into  the  deep,  like  white  pebbles  that 
one  by  one  dodged  the  tremors  of  the  moving  ship 
and  rendered  the  gloss  of  the  water  visible  while 
they  sank. 

"Those,"  began  Tisdale  quietly,  "give  a  man  the 

idea No  bottom,  down,  and  down."     He 

stooped,  with  a  movement  as  of  shivering;  fired 
the  mesh  of  the  binnacle  lamp,  and  shipped  it; 
then  studied  the  moon,  that  faintly  kindled  with 


THE    FLYTRAP  35 

yellow,  to  show  a  greenish  pallor  in  the  heavens. 
"How  the  old  stage  lights  up,  Rob,  for  our  little 
act !  Muted  fiddles  in  the  orchestra  !  But,  some- 
how, for  my  exit,  I'd  rather  storm  off  than  have 
all  this  Moonlight  Sonata." 

"Yes,"  rejoined  his  friend,  "if  we  could  choose. 
I  think  she'll  stay  on  top  all  night,  though." 

They  began  talking  of  many  things  which  had 
neither  any  bearing  on  the  present  hour  nor  any 
link  with  that  part  of  the  world.  The  warm  night 
loosened  their  tongues,  the  dreamy,  spacious  ra- 
diance lent  scope  to  their  memories.  They  talked 
as  for  a  wager,  smoked  cigars  till  the  only  box 
was  emptied,  and,  though  relieving  each  other  at 
the  wheel,  and,  as  a  final  measure,  stowing  pro- 
visions in  the  small  boat  on  her  gibbet,  gave  no 
thought  to  anything  but  the  pressure  of  time,  the 
necessity  of  speaking  words,  hearing  words,  which 
could  fill  the  mind  and  crowd  out  that  nocturnal 
silence. 

Meanwhile  the  moon  drifted  over  the  topmast, 
then  stole  down  lower  and  lower,  with  a  bleared, 
wintry  look.  Across  her  face  went  winging  two 
black  midges,  a  pair  of  sea  birds  that  fled  past  the 
schooner  and  melted  in  a  region  where  stars  were 
gathering.  Later,  a  solitary  third  fowl  crossed  the 
moon  path  in  the  same  direction,  very  wearily,  and 


36  THEFARCRY 

cried  something  once,  far  off,  and  derisive.  Soon 
afterward  the  little,  ailing  moon  went  down,  left 
the  ocean  vaulted  with  great  stars,  and  the  vessel, 
a  piece  of  human  driftwood,  alone  with  the  oval 
glow  of  her  binnacle. 

"I  can't  stand  this!"  groaned  Tisdale.  He 
went  fumbling  down  the  companionway,  to  return 
with  a  lighted  candle  lantern,  which  he  set  on  the 
deck.  "There!  A  trifle  more  homelike.  That 
darkness  gets  under  the  roots  of  a  chap's  hair." 

Wallace  disregarded  the  improvement.  He 
was  leaning  over  the  helm  in  a  strained  attitude, 
looking  down,  but  as  though  listening.  Bordered 
with  the  scarlet  kerchief,  his  brown  face  resembled 
that  of  some  old-time  Turkey  merchant,  intent  on 
a  bargain. 

"Hear  anything?"  he  demanded,  all  at  once. 
"Do  you?" 

Tisdale  gave  heed.  Both  men  eyed  each  other 
severely  in  the  lantern  light,  as  if  by  staring  hard 
enough  they  could  bend  their  double  intelligence 
into  one  force  of  hearing. 

"No.     Possibly,  once Those  birds?" 

The  steersman  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"They  flew  out  of  earshot,  long  ago.  But  lis- 
ten." 

Another  long  effort  brought  no  result.    Tisdale 


THE    FLYTRAP  37 

raised  his  chin,  began  to  sniff  the  night  like  a 
dog.  Their  staring  match  thus  ended,  the  part- 
ners craned  forward,  shielding  their  eyes  against 
the  lantern.  Two  white  figures,  cramped  in  the 
same  posture,  they  seemed  to  await  a  third  person 
who,  at  any  moment,  might  take  shape  in  the 
starlight,  and  arrive. 

"I  hear  it  now,"  whispered  Wallace. 

"By  George,  I  smell  it!"  Tisdale  shouted, 
throwing  up  his  fist  joyfully.    "I  smell  it !" 

While  they  spoke,  and  as  if  responding,  the  ship 
quivered,  subsided  under  them  with  a  shrinking 
movement,  lifted  with  a  swelling,  and,  rather  play- 
fully than  violently,  upset  both  men  on  her  deck. 

"She's  going!"  Tisdale  snatched  the  bail  of  the 
lantern  as  it  rolled  past,  and  jumped  on  foot. 
"Come  along,  Rob!" 

He  seemed  ready  to  run  somewhere.  Wallace 
caught  his  hand,  crying : 

"No,  no !  She's  grounded.  Fast  by  the  head. 
Feel  her!" 

Tisdale  swung  up  his  lantern  at  arm's  length, 
with  some  wild  purpose  of  shedding  light  on  the 
whole  situation.  A  dim  circle  of  the  deck  flickered 
into  view,  rocked  vaguely  as  the  lantern  rocked, 
and  then,  with  great  deliberation,  collected  new 
movement  of  its  own ;  everything  on  the  right  hand 


38  THE    FAR    CRY 

rose,  everything  on  the  left  sank,  in  perfect  order 
and  counterbalance.  The  men  had  hardly  felt 
their  footing  start  when  it  canted  from  under,  and 
they  struck  the  bottom  of  a  steep  chute.  The  lan- 
tern smashed  on  the  port  rail.  Overboard  flew 
the  candle,  a  thread  of  guttering  blue  fire  instantly 
quenched. 

"That's  right  enough,"  Wallace  declared,  sit- 
ting breathless  but  philosophic  in  a  barrel  or  so 
of  slopping  water.  "Heeled  over.  The  sails, 
Arthur;  get  our  canvas  off  before  the  wind  comes." 

The  rag  of  headsail  they  doused  readily  enough ; 
as  for  the  foresail,  the  best  they  could  manage, 
crawling  and  slipping  along  the  deck,  was  to  lower 
the  peak,  strain  at  the  downhaul,  then  let  the  whole 
black  fabric  swirl  down  past  the  stars  and  float  on 
the  lesser  blackness  of  the  sea. 

"So!"  cried  Wallace.  "We've  done  our  pos- 
sible!" 

They  scrambled  aft,  and,  using  the  side  of  the 
cabin  as  a  footrest,  lay  down  on  deck  at  a  com- 
fortable slant.  Before  them  the  sky  paled  with 
dawn,  the  lower  stars  dried  and  dwindled. 

"I  can  smell  it  now,"  said  Wallace,  clasping 
his  hands  under  his  head.    "Plain." 

"Well  you  might !"  Tisdale  stretched  his  arms, 
yawning.    "And  I  can  hear  it." 


THE    FLYTRAP  39 

A  whisper,  like  that  of  a  quiet  wind  pouring 
through  pine  woods,  stole  toward  them  out  of 
the  dawn — the  whisper  of  small  waves  breaking 
slowly  at  a  distance.  Pungent  whiffs  of  brine  and 
iodine  came  with  it,  exhaled  by  wet  seaweed;  and 
these,  from  time  to  time,  were  overwhelmed  in  a 
stink  of  fish. 

An  hour  dragged  past;  light  spread  up  trem- 
bling from  the  eastern  sea;  the  world  became  a 
suffusion  of  dark,  mystical  blue;  and  there,  ahead, 
between  the  watchers  on  the  wreck  and  a  sudden 
orange  filament  of  horizon,  swam  a  coal-black, 
broken  lump,  an  islet.  It  lay  at  a  quarter  mile, 
perhaps,  off  the  starboard  bow.  The  sun  rose  hid- 
den behind  it,  suspending  in  yellow  flame  its  hard 
profile:  a  small,  black  turret  of  rock,  nicked  along 
the  crest  with  tiny,  ragged  crenelation;  from  the 
foot  a  strip  of  beach  running  off,  widening,  and 
sloping  into  a  final  mound  or  hillock,  furred  with 
low  foliage,  crowned  with  four  tall  palms. 

The  planters  hung  on  the  rail,  seeing  all  this  as 
over  the  ridgepole  of  a  house.  The  snowy  fringe 
of  waves,  under  the  beach,  stirred  and  beckoned 
them.  They  left  off  staring,  now  and  then,  to  grin 
at  eac.i  other  like  hungry  men  eating. 

"Come  ahead!"  Wallace  clambered  over  to 
their  little  gallows  tree,  and  began  tugging  at  the 


4o  THE    FAR    CRY 

fall  of  the  boat  tackle.  "What  you  waiting  for?" 
They  slid  the  boat  down  handsomely  across  the 
deck,  and  launched  her  in  clear,  shallow  water, 
frightening  a  drove  of  red  and  silver  fishes.  Wal- 
lace took  the  oars.  Tisdale,  perching  high  among 
boxes,  had  almost  contrived  to  ship  the  rudder, 
when  suddenly  he  threw  it  down,  caught  hold  of 
the  overhanging  shrouds,  and  swung  back  on 
board  the  Nantwich. 

"Steady  a  bit!"  he  ordered.     "I  forgot." 
He  climbed  the  deck,  and  disappeared  down  the 
companionway.     Presently  his  voice  resounded  in 
the  cabin,  crying  snatches  of  exhortation.    A  rust- 
ling noise  smothered  the  words. 

"Increase  and  multiply!"  His  red  bandanna 
headkerchief  popped  into  view.  He  crawled  on 
deck  once  more,  and  stood  up,  flapping  sheets  of 
old  newspaper  in  both  hands,  as  if  to  make  a  sig- 
nal. "Be  happy,  my  children!  Shoo!  Scat,  you 
fools,  fly  to  leeward !" 

The  sun,  clearing  the  low  impediment  of  the 
isle,  bathed  all  the  sea  and  all  the  vessel  in  warm 
light.  The  cabin  flies,  a  thin  swarm  glinting  like 
crumbs  of  gun  metal,  buzzed  and  scattered  into 
freedom. 

"Off !"  cried  Tisdale.    "There's  land  for  you !" 


CHAPTER    IV 

GODBOLT,    A.    B. 

The  buoyant  gliding  of  the  small  boat,  so  in- 
timate and  level  with  the  water,  was  like  a  breath 
of  liberty.  As  their  oars  dipped,  the  bulkhead 
clock — a  cheap  imitation  of  brass,  balanced  on  Tis- 
dale's  knee — struck  five  bells.  The  little  sounds 
tingled  over  the  shoal.  It  was  music  to  hear  them, 
and  to  know  that  they  rang  in  a  day  so  fortunate. 

"Out  round  the  foresail,  Arthur.  Mind  your 
tiller." 

Tisdale  obeyed  with  a  laugh. 

"I  was  listening,"  he  explained.  "And  watch- 
ing those  fish.    Golly!" 

They  rounded  a  bank  of  dirty,  swollen  canvas 
where  the  foresail  floated.  Wallace  backed  water, 
to  study  everything  with  care.  The  schooner 
lolled  in  a  clean  bed — an  outermost  ledge  of  the 
shoal — on  yellow  sand  all  crinkled  with  ripple 
marks,  as  pretty  as  the  grain  of  Norway  pine. 

4i 


42  THEFARCRY 

"She's  there  for  keeps,"  muttered  the  rower. 
"Now  head  ashore." 

Though  laden  to  her  gunwale,  the  boat  drew 
forward  with  the  same  still  buoyancy  befitting  that 
lake  of  sunrise.  Before  her  the  island  had  grown 
clear,  and  taken  color.  The  tawny  beach  bright- 
ened, the  crag — sombre,  till  now,  as  a  black  rook 
in  chess — was  painted  wet-green  with  weeds  above 
the  surf  line,  patched  red  with  dulse,  fretted  and 
frosted  from  top  to  bottom  with  the  roosting  of  a 
thousand  sea  birds.  The  oars,  bumping  steadily 
as  Wallace  pulled,  roused  a  hollow  answer  from 
the  rocks,  at  which  a  great  company  of  winged 
creatures — tern,  gannet,  and  frigate  bird — flew  up 
and  twinkled  above  the  morning  sun,  their  noise 
and  number  incredible,  and  from  every  crack  or 
shelf  of  this  populous  turret  the  black  neck  of  a 
cormorant  writhed  out,  like  so  many  snakes  raising 
their  heads  off  the  basalt  columns. 

"Straight  in  for  the  beach,"  commanded  Wal- 
lace.   "No  sea  running  to  speak  of." 

He  let  his  oars  drip,  and  watched  the  birds 
above  the  cliff.  Already,  their  surprise  over,  they 
settled  in  a  lively  cloud  and  came  flapping  to  roost. 
It  was  they  who  formed  the  crenelation  of  the 
rocky  tower;  for  against  the  risen  light  their  bod- 
ies crowded  in  clumps  and  squabbling  families, 


GOD  BOLT,    A.    B.  43 

which  presently  became  pacified,  and  lined  the  crest 
with  rude  embrasures. 

"Not  afraid  of  us."  Wallace  took  up  his  row- 
ing. "A  bad  lookout,  their  being  so  tame.  Island 
has  nobody  living  on  it." 

The  steersman,  at  this,  broke  out  into  mutiny. 

"Confound  it,  Rob!"  He  stared  angrily,  and 
dropped  the  clock  with  a  bang.  "Can't  you  ever 
be  grateful?    Don't  spoil  the  whole  occasion!" 

Wallace  paused,  between  strokes. 

"Why,  Arthur,"  he  replied,  and  his  voice  was 
troubled.  "Why,  Arthur,  a  man  must  think  of 
possibilities." 

"Go  on,  Father."  Tisdale  picked  up  the  clock, 
held  it  to  his  ear,  and  replaced  it  on  his  lap. 
"Think  away,  old  Doxology." 

He  steered  for  the  beach,  a  stone's  throw  from 
the  crag  foot.  With  a  long,  slow  lift  as  gentle  as 
breathing,  the  sea  carried  them  forward  once  and 
again,  then  lanced  them  through  hissing,  white 
spume.  They  jumped  out,  caught  the  boat  be- 
tween them,  and,  with  no  more  difficulty  than  chil- 
dren might  have  in  rescuing  a  toy,  ran  her  lightly 
across  this  margin,  over  the  wet  sand  into  the  dry. 
For  a  moment  they  stood  erect,  flinging  abroad 
their  arms,  drinking  long  drafts  of  the  briny,  fish- 
laden  air,  admiring  the  saber  curve  of  the  beach, 


44  THEFARCRY 

that  plunged  its  glowing  point  into  the  hill  of  green 
underbrush  and  palms,  a  mile  away.  There  was 
no  trace  of  man,  no  sign  of  life,  except  a  fitful 
squawking  and  bickering  in  the  citadel  of  birds 
near  by. 

"Unload?" 

"And  breakfast.    Hai !" 

They  carried  their  goods  and  hauled  their  boat 
above  the  tide  mark — a  line  drawn  in  rags  of  sea- 
weed variously  and  delicately  colored.  Here,  on 
sand  as  fine  as  the  siftings  of  an  hourglass,  the  cast- 
aways pitched  their  first  camp,  ate  their  first  meal; 
and  here,  having  stretched  an  old  canvas  over  two 
tiers  of  boxes,  they  crawled  into  shelter  and  slept 
like  dead  men. 

"A-a-ah!     What  luxury!" 

The  sun,  still  high,  faced  them  out  of  the  west, 
and  poured  into  their  little  cave  the  full  heat  and 
splendor  of  afternoon. 

"What  luxury!"  Tisdale  rolled  over,  yawned, 
and  sat  up.  He  found  Wallace  already  awake, 
squatting  with  his  back  to  the  sunshine,  and 
thoughtfully  chewing  a  pencil.  "Something  wrong 
again,  my  Knitted  Brow?" 

Wallace  frowned,  and,  smoothing  a  paper  on 
his  knee,  wrote  down  a  word  or  so.  The  tide  line 
of  weeds — faded  pink,  faded  green,  leaf-yellow, 


GODBOLT,    A.    B.  45 

and  claret — shone  behind  him  like  a  Persian  car- 
pet torn  to  shreds;  beyond,  the  surf  ran  dazzling; 
farther  still,  where  the  bright  green  shoal  deep- 
ened into  blue,  the  Nantwich  lay  diminished,  her 
masts  leaning  at  a  melancholy  pitch,  and  a  flock 
of  sea  birds  hankering  about  her,  with  plangent 
cries.  Against  this  background,  Wallace  sat  and 
chewed  his  pencil,  the  image  of  a  poet  expecting  a 
rhyme.    He  looked  up. 

"I've  made  an  inventory."  And  he  read  aloud 
from  his  paper: 

"Provisions:  two  boxes  tinned  meat,  one 
case  biscuits,  one  bag  Chinese  rice,  one  bunch 
bananas,  one  breaker  of  water,  one  bottle 
whiskey,  one-half  case  Tansan.  Tools  and 
implements:  four  axes,  one  saw,  one  maul, 
one  clock,  one  compass.  Miscellaneous:  two 
dozen  candles,  seven  packets  pipe  tobac- 
co  " 

"And  fiftyrtwo  playing  cards,  Father."  Tisdale 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  worn  pack,  which,  with  a 
modest  air  of  contribution,  he  laid  on  the  sand 
before  his  chief.    "All  the  pleasures  of  home." 

Wallace  folded  and  put  away  his  paper,  very 
deliberately. 


46  THEFARCRY 

"This  matter,"  he  began,  in  a  sort  of  calm 
dudgeon,  "happens  to  be  serious." 

Tisdale  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  know  it!"  he  cried  irritably.  UI  know  it! 
But,  Rob,  if  you  read  out  any  more  of  that — that 
damned  trousseau,  you'll  drive  me  wild!"  He 
shuffled  the  cards,  arrayed  them  face  upward  on 
the  sand,  and  began,  with  composure,  to  play  a 
game  of  solitaire.  "We  brought  enough  to  start 
housekeeping.  And,  what's  more,  I  want  to  enjoy 
the  first  day  of  it." 

He  held  up  the  nine  of  diamonds,  bent  forward 
to  place  it  on  the  ten  of  spades,  but  never  finished 
the  movement  or  the  game.  Had  lightning  struck 
their  tent  the  two  men  could  not  have  sat  more 
stunned.  A  voice,  a  third  voice,  deep  and  jovial, 
broke  out  in  the  wilderness  and  joined  their  dis- 
cussion. 

"Good  boy !    Good  words !" 

They  turned  their  heads,  looked,  and  won- 
dered. 

A  man  sat  on  the  nose  of  their  boat,  close  by,  re- 
garding them  steadfastly — a  large  man  with  a 
black,  pointed  beard,  who  wore  a  strange  plaited 
hat  like  a  fig  basket,  a  blue  flannel  shirt  full  of 
holes,  and  moleskin  trousers  cut  short  below  the 
knees.     He  seemed  all  bigness  and  burliness,  tat- 


GO  D  BOLT,    A.    B.  47 

ters  and  ruddy  sunburn;  but  this  first  impression, 
of  rough  size,  yielded  to  a  second  and  a  more 
striking.  The  stranger,  although  he  merely  sat 
there  after  his  brief  interjection,  might  have  been 
pausing  in  a  full  stream  of  talk,  so  heartily  did 
humor  and  persuasion  warm  his  features  and  shine 
from  his  black  eyes. 

"I've  lived  on  the  island  one  year,"  said  this  ap- 
parition, in  a  voice  like  a  deep  bell;  "alone,  one 
year,  and  had  no  more  than  a  pair  of  pocket  scis- 
sors. Trim  your  beard,  and  look  at  the  sea,  and 
what  are  the  wild  waves  saying?  There's  my 
diary  of  it!" 

The  two  men  in  the  tent  remained  gaping. 

"You're  college  boys,  now,  to  make  a  guess?" 
He  swung  his  brown  feet  and  smiled.    "I  bet  you 


are. 


"Four  years  out,"  said  Tisdale,  who  began  to 
recover. 

"Ah,  now,  I  envy  you !"  cried  the  stranger,  with 
gusto.  "I  do,  honest.  Lucky  men !  High  school 
was  where  I  stuck,  halfway,  when  father  failed — 
cattle,  cattle,  they  bust  easy.  You  boys  know 
Greek,  now,  I  dare  say?  Well,  there,  to  think!" 
He  grasped  his  black  beard  in  his  fist,  and  tugged 
it  sorrowfully.  "The  orts  of  that  Greek  class,  I 
used  to  glean  'em  up — 'Anthropos  across  a  hawse, 


48  THEFARCRY 

a  hoss  on  Anthropos' — all  about  the  wise  man,  and 
Brick  Metcalf  reciting,  too.  Next  year,  thinks  I 
at  the  time,  I'll  catch  up  those  wise  men  and  be 
Lambano-Lepsomai-Lambasting  away  with  the 
proudest  of  'em.  Next  year!  Lord!  And  here 
we  are  instead." 

He  swept  a  big  hand  toward  the  surf  and  the 
ocean  beyond. 

"Shows  you,  that  does,  how  much  good  comes 
o'  foresight."  He  returned  from  gazing;  his 
black  eyes  twinkled.  "Did  anybody  say  tobacco? 
Speech  behaves  queer  to  me,  boys,  and  my  over- 
hearing might  have  gone  wrong,  because  I've 
dreamed  tobacco  these  last  few  months." 

Wallace  tossed  him  one  of  the  seven  packets. 
He  tore  open  the  wrapping,  took  a  long,  critical 
whiff,  stood  up,  sprang  into  the  air,  and  cracked 
his  bare  heels  together  three  times  before  alight- 
ing. 

"Wow!"  He  sniffed  the  tobacco  again,  and 
beamed.  "That's  honey  on  the  stinger!  Thank 
you,  boys,  thank  you.  Wait  a  minute,  I'll  be  back." 

He  balanced  the  packet  carefully  on  the  boat's 
nose,  turned,  ran  off  across  the  beach  at  remark- 
able speed,  and,  bounding  up  the  bank  like  a 
greyhound,  was  lost  in  the  undergrowth. 

"What  do  you  make  of  that?" 


GO  D  BOLT,    A.    B.  49 

The  two  friends  had  scrambled  out  from  their 
shelter,  to  watch  for  the  stranger's  return.  Wal- 
lace tapped  his  forehead. 

"A  little  crazy,  I'm  afraid." 

"Oh,  Rob!"  Tisdale  protested  with  scorn. 
Then,  more  mildly — "I  don't  care  if  the  man  is," 
he  declared.     "He's  a  buster!" 

The  plaited  hat  shone  once  more  among  the 
greenery.  The  stranger  sprang  down  upon  the 
beach  and  came  racing  back,  a  harefoot  for  light- 
ness. 

"All  correct  now!"  he  shouted  as  he  ran;  and, 
without  drawing  short  breath  more  than  twice, 
plumped  himself  down  on  the  sand  by  the  boat, 
laughing.  "Now,"  he  boomed,  "for  a  smoke! 
Went  to  fetch  my  pipe !" 

His  pipe  was  a  white  sea  shell,  with  a  short 
reed  stem.  He  crammed  in  the  tobacco,  shook 
out  his  hand  eagerly  for  a  match,  struck  a  light, 
drew  and  exhaled  a  slow  draft  of  smoke,  then 
wagged  his  beard  with  ineffable  relish.  For  a 
while  he  said  nothing,  but  rolled  his  eyes  at  his 
two  benefactors,  and  squatted  there,  a  big, 
swarthy  figure,  puffing  at  his  white  sea  shell  like 
the  peasant  murderer  in  "Robert  Helmont." 

"Well!"  He  spoke  at  last,  between  clouds. 
"Well,  now,  I'll  unfold  it.    ' Who's  this  wild  man  ?' 


5o  THE    FAR    CRY 

you  been  saying.  Oh,  yes,  you  have !  Natural  to. 
So,  here  goes.  Godbolt's  my  name — Francis  God- 
bolt.  The  rest  is  soon  told.  Now  to  start  fair 
and  open " 

Tisdale,  sitting  cross-legged  beside  him,  put  in 
a  word : 

"To  start  even,  on  both  sides,  you  ought  to 
know  something  about  us,  and  how  we  got  here." 

The  smoker  laughed. 

"Can  see  how  you  got  here,"  he  answered, 
pointing  his  pipe  toward  the  wreck  on  the  shoal. 
"That's  how.  And  she'll  never  budge  again*  if 
I'm  any  sailor.  As  for  you  boys — why,  Lord 
bless  you !  I  could  tell  by  your  faces.  No  fear !" 
Again  he  pointed  at  the  schooner.  "She  looks 
familiar,  too.     What  might  be  her  name?" 

"Nantwich"  Wallace  told  him.  "We  bought 
her  for  nothing  from  a  drunken  old  reprobate  who 
died  next  week." 

The  ragged  islander  clapped  his  thigh. 

"Thought  I  knew  her,"  said  he,  and  sat  look- 
ing beyond  her  masts  into  the  distance.  "Poor 
old  Captain  Hardmood,  gone  to  glory.  He  stole 
that  schooner  over  in  the  Carolines.  And  so  he's 
dead,  and  his  vessel  done  for.  You  see,  I  knew 
'em  both.  Barratry,  plain  barratry,  it  amounted 
to.     And  Hardmood's   the   only  man   ever   de- 


GO  D  BOLT,    A.    B.  51 

feated  rum.  But  I  wouldn't  just  call  him  a  repro- 
bate, either.  Lots  o'  good  points  to  Captain  Hard- 
mood,  there  was,  before  his  daughter  went 

Oh,  well,  he's  dead  now,  poor  man!" 

This  bit  of  sea  dirge  caused  another  silence, 
while  the  speaker  twisted  his  beard. 

"But  that's  not  my  story,"  he  continued,  by  and 
by.  "And  first  thing  I  saw  you  boys  asleep  here, 
and  her  aground,  I  ran  home  to  put  my  clothes  on 
— been  going  naked  a  good  deal,  to  save  'em — and 
then  came  back  to  introduce  myself  proper;  for 
likely  we'll  stay  aboard  the  island  some  time  to- 
gether. Now  here's  mine,  and  every  word  true, 
though  I  don't  amount  to  much,  and  look  so." 

He  sat  smoking  and  collecting  his  thoughts.  A 
white  gull  soared  and  tilted  overhead,  came  float- 
ing close,  peered  down  at  the  men  with  curious 
bright  eyes,  then  squawked,  lowered  its  pink  web 
feet  as  a  brake,  and,  planing  the  air  at  a  new  angle, 
escaped. 

"One  o'  my  chickens,"  said  the  man,  watching 
it.  "For  a  year  I've  been  a  bird  farmer.  Before 
that — everything !"  He  knocked  out  the  sea-shell 
pipe,  and  refilled  it.  "When  father  failed,  and 
died,  and  then  my  mother,  I — I  just  cut  loose.  A 
parson  was  good  to  me,  but  he  went  as  missionary 
to  China.     I  agreed  to  help  him  take  two  cows 


52  THE    FAR    CRY 

and  a  bull  there.  Better'n  my  word,  for  I  dis- 
charged them  and  a  calf  at  Woosung.  Cunning 
little  dogy,  the  calf  was,  Triton  by  name,  being 
born  at  sea.  From  that  time  on,  as  I  say — every- 
thing, everywhere,  sailor  mostly,  all  over  the  East. 
Thirty-two  years  of  age;  able-bodied.  That's  all. 
Able-bodied  is  my  degree ;  can  thumb  out  Latin — 
almost  came  to  smelling  distance  o'  Greek.  Now 
tell  me,  boys,  is  there  any  sense  in  a  life  like  that? 
I  wondered  a  lot,  here." 

He  looked  up  wistfully.  His  eyes,  bold  and 
humorous  until  now,  became  very  sad,  gained  all 
at  once  a  surprising  depth  of  melancholy.  Tisdale 
encouraged  him  with  a  nod,  handed  him  another 
match,  and  said: 

"But  you  didn't  tell  us  how  you  came  here." 

"Oh,"  replied  the  wanderer  simply,  "got  left. 
I  went  life-line  man  on  a  shelling  schooner — 
Malay  crew,  Arab  skipper.  She  put  in  here  for 
eggs  and  turtle.  No  turtle,  either.  I  dropped 
asleep  in  the  shade,  being  dog-tired,  and  when  I 
woke  up  she'd  gone  off  and  left  me.  Too  lazy  to 
row  back,  I  suppose,  when  they  found  I  wasn't  on 
board.  Here  I  was,  anyhow,  and  here  I  stayed, 
eggs  and  fish  to  my  chow." 

Wallace  hung  his  head,  as  if  weighing  this  nar- 
rative. 


GO  D  BOLT,    A.    B.  53 

"What  chance  do  you  make,"  he  inquired  ser- 
iously, "of  our  getting  off  this  island,  or  being 
taken  off?" 

The  black-bearded  man  became  equally  serious. 

"Mighty  little,  to  be  candid."  There  could  be 
no  greater  candor  than  that  in  his  clear,  black 
eyes.  "Mighty  little,  either  way.  I  flew  my  cing- 
let,  for  a  flag,  on  the  tallest  of  those  palms,  till 
it  blew  away  one  night.     Did  no  good,  so  far  as 

being  sighted.     And  for  getting  off Well, 

here's  your  boat,  but  where's  to  make  f or  ?  Land's 
near  enough,  some  point  of  compass,  but  the  devil 
knows  which.  My  crowd,  the  shelling  schooner, 
was  two  weeks  out,  and  blown  off  her  course." 
He  got  on  foot,  and,  still  smoking,  looked  aim- 
lessly about,  as  if  to  find  something  new  in  the 
same  old  ocean  and  a  sunset  of  plain  blue  and 
yellow.  "No.  I'm  sorry  for  your  sake,  boys,  but 
I  can't  pretend  not  being  glad  o'  company." 

Upon  this  remark,  Tisdale  also  stood  up,  and 
faced  him. 

"We're  glad  of  yours,"  he  stated  warmly. 
"Your  talk  does  me  good,  Mr. — Mr.  Thunder- 
bolt." 

The  sailor  broke  out  laughing,  and  shook  hands. 

"Godbolt,"  he  amended,  in  a  voice  that  made 
the  name  sound  like  profanity.     "I  knew  you'd 


54  THE    FAR    CRY 

turn  a  joke  on  it.  They  always  do.  Sainty,  some 
call  me,  because  that's  many  a  point  off  my  na- 
ture." 

The  sun  hung  low  and  sank.  The  ocean,  run- 
ning its  dark-blue  bar  across  a  vast  brightness  of 
pale  blue  and  gold,  divided  the  real  sky,  above, 
from  that  mimic  sky  beneath,  where,  as  all  three 
men  stood  thinking,  the  wet  sands  brought  sunset 
home  to  their  feet. 

"Well,  boys,"  continued  Godbolt,  turning, 
"while  daylight  holds,  better  lug  your  goods  up 
to  my  house." 

When  they  had  sorted  out  three  armfuls  from 
the  general  store,  and  spread  their  canvas  over  the 
rest,  they  crossed  the  beach  and  climbed  into  a  lit- 
tle path  hidden  by  green  shrubs.  The  sailor  led 
the  way  slowly,  often  halting  to  set  down  his  bur- 
den. "For,"  said  he,  "you  boys  look  worn  out." 
It  was  dim  moonlight  by  the  time  they  gained  the 
final  hillock  and  the  taller  bush,  where  the  con- 
tinual crying  of  birds  came  fainter,  and  fragrant 
verdure  blotted  the  smell  of  salt  weeds  and  fish. 

"She  steps  all  four  masts  plumb  in  her  bow," 
said  the  lord  of  the  island.  "And  here's  my  house, 
between  'em." 

A  clumsy  cone  of  dry  thatch,  like  a  beehive 
raised  on  legs,  stood  among  four  palm  trunks  in 


GOD  BOLT,    A.    B.  55 

the  dusk.  Under  this  roof  Godbolt  made  his 
guests  welcome,  by  lighting  a  candle  and  sticking 
it  in  the  dry  sand  that  served  as  floor. 

"Take  your  supper,  now,"  he  ordered,  "and 
get  to  sleep.  No  more  talk  this  day."  Drooping 
over  the  candle,  they  ate  like  weary  figures  in  a 
dream.  Their  host — meanwhile  gnawing  a  biscuit 
with  grumbles  of  delight  that  it  was  neither  fish 
nor  egg — came  and  went  behind  their  backs,  till 
he  had  shaken  down  a  bedding  of  dry  leaves. 

"Good  night,"  he  said  abruptly,  blew  out  the 
candle,  rolled  over  to  a  post,  lay  flat,  and  began 
almost  instantly  to  snore. 

Late  that  night,  when  the  moon  stood  over  the 
palm  tops,  Tisdale,  happening  to  wake,  heard  low 
footsteps  passing  and  repassing  the  open  side  of 
the  hut.  He  sat  up,  vigilant,  then  crawled  out- 
doors, and  peered  round  to  see  who  was  prowling. 
The  surf  had  grown  higher  on  some  distant  reef 
or  bank,  so  that  these  nearer  sounds,  coming  and 
going  steadily,  were  often  lost  in  the  deep  tone 
of  breakers.  A  moving  shadow  appeared  beyond 
the  palm  trunks.  Tisdale  walked  over  toward 
it. 

"Woke  you,  did  I?"  The  shade  spoke  in  God- 
bolt's  mellow  bass,  paused,  and  moved  on.  He 
was  marching  back  and  forth,  naked,  in  the  moon- 


56  THE    FAR    CRY 

light.  "Sorry.  I  can't  sleep  when  that  old  fellow 
gets  to  calling  out  there.    Calling.    Listen.'' 

The  night  walker  again  halted,  to  raise  a  giant 
arm  that  glistened  as  cold  as  bronze. 

"Calls  me  out  o'  my  sleep,  the  old  chap  does. 
What  does  he  want?" 

The  surf,  through  a  sharp  whisper  prolonged 
like  the  tearing  of  silk  in  immense  strips,  gave  its 
hollower  summons. 

"  'Come  and  find  out,'  he  says.  'Come  find 
what  sense  there  is  to  a  life  like  yours.  What 
sense?'" 

Tisdale  laid  his  hand  on  the  outstretched  arm. 

"We'll  find  out,  some  day,"  he  replied  urgently 

but  quietly.     "Some  day,  perhaps.    To-night 

Come  back  to  bed,  Sainty." 

The  great  arm  quivered  strongly,  lifted,  and 
struck  him  across  the  back. 

"Bells  o'  Beulah !"  cried  the  sailor  fiercely.  "It's 
grand  to  hear  a  nickname  again!"  He  started 
walking  obediently  toward  where  the  ponderous 
beehive  roof  glimmered  like  a  mound  of  snow 
among  frosty  plantain  leaves.  "You're  right,  my 
dear  boy.     Back  to  sleep,  and  wait." 

He  halted  once  more,  leaned  one  hand  on  the 
column  of  a  palm,  and  raised  his  bearded  profile, 


GO  D  BOLT,    A.    B.  57 

keen  as  a  hawk's — a  strange  listener  in  a  strange 
white  nocturne. 

"You're  right,"  he  repeated.    "But  all  the  same 
— it's  crying.'1 


CHAPTER   V 

A   TO   IZZARD 

They  took  an  early  breakfast  on  the  march, 
eating  as  they  threaded  the  low  bush  down  to  the 
beach.  At  sunrise  they  rowed  out  to  the  schooner, 
accompanied  by  a  screaming  cloud  of  gannets  and 
gulls,  whose  pinions  whitened  the  air  like  flying 
paper — a  snowstorm  of  ravenous  birds  flung  down, 
torn  apart,  blown  high  or  skimming  the  water, 
but  always  thickest  where  the  boat  swam. 

When  all  three  men  had  climbed  on  board  the 
Nantwich,  to  look  about  for  salvage,  Godbolt 
threw  up  his  hands  in  amazement,  doffed  his  fig- 
basket  hat,  and  swept  an  ironical  bow. 

uThe  Lord  nourish  fools!"  He  saw  the 
whole  vessel  at  a  glance,  and  his  black  eyes 
snapped.  "O  Lord,  nourish  fools  forever!  Ex- 
cuse me,  boys,  but  He  slid  an  island  under  her 
forefoot  without  stopping  to  think  twice.  You 
never  gave  Him  time." 


ATOIZZARD  59 

Wallace,  whom  the  shadow  of  tribulation  still 
overhung,  looked  ashore  dolefully,  and  shook  his 
head. 

"Not  much  to  brag  of." 

The  other  rounded  on  him,  laughing  heartily: 

uNot  much?"  He  called  the  wheeling  birds  to 
witness.  "Providence,  my  son,  Providence  never 
did  a  quicker  hand's  turn !" 

"If  we're  to  live  and  die  here,"  Wallace  re- 
torted, "alone,  sole  alone " 

"Well,  there!"  Godbolt  swung  into  the  com- 
panionway,  and  climbed  out  again,  shouldering 
the  yellow  camphor  chest  like  a  feather.  He  set 
this  load  down,  before  taking  up  the  argument. 
"Sole  alone?"  he  echoed,  and  gave  a  wink  of 
satire.  "Ever  live  in  a  house,  did  you,  Mr.  Wal- 
lace, packed  roundabout  and  chock-a-block  with 
relatives,  your  nearest  o'  blood  or  marriage  ?  And 
did  you  always  love  'em  all,  dear  and  steady? 
Or  walk  a  street,  Mr.  Wallace,  and  see  those 
lovely  faces  go  a-streaming  by,  and  the  right  hands 
o'  brotherhood  all  poked  out  to  fondle  you?" 

He  disappeared  below,  to  stagger  blindfold  on 
deck  with  a  pair  of  mattresses  over  his  head. 

"Phew!"  he  cried,  bundling  them  into  the  boat. 
"My  late  friend  Hardmood  took  to  garlic  also, 
I  understand!"     He  straightened  up,  wagged  a 


60  THE    FAR    CRY 

forefinger  at  the  island,  as  though  aiming  one  last 
dead  shot  of  wisdom.  "Mr.  Wallace" — he  lev- 
eled the  finger  after  every  word — "there's  lots 
worse  things  than  living  alone !" 

Next  moment  he  was  down  in  the  cabin,  rum- 
maging, and  singing  over  and  over  to  the  air  of 
"The  Irish  Washerwoman" : 

"  'Oh,  John  Darling  lived  well, 
And  his  father  lived  well, 
And  his  father  well  knew 
That  John  Darling  lived  well! 
And  John  Darling  lived  well, 
And  his  father  lived ' 

"O'  course,"  he  shouted  up,  suddenly,  "a  man 
can  sit  on  his  prats  and  think  Omar  Key-West  all 
day,  if  he's  that  much  concentration!" 

So  began  their  second  day  on  the  isle,  with 
wrecker's  work,  debate  in  philosophy,  and  always 
the  cat-like  fighting  of  sea-birds.  So  their  days 
continued.  The  schooner,  gutted  of  all  things  use- 
ful, let  fall  both  her  masts,  and  settled,  a  rotting, 
grinding  hulk  between  sand  and  water;  by  which 
time  the  trio  had  forsaken  her,  except  as  a  mark 
to  swim  round  in  their  morning  bath.  Athletes, 
training,  when  the  world  was  young,  to  race  for  a 


ATOIZZARD  61 

strigil  and  a  parsley  wreath,  could  not  have  led 
cleaner  lives  than  theirs  upon  this  mile  of  beach. 
Sunrise  woke  them  in  the  beehive  house;  and 
when  Tisdale  had  won  at  the  swimming,  and 
Godbolt,  without  effort,  had  flung  them  both  over 
his  head  in  a  wrestling  match,  or  outstripped  them 
a  hundred  yards  in  running  a  mile,  there  followed 
wholesome  hours  of  porterage  and  carpentry 
under  perpetual  sunshine.  The  mainmast  of  the 
Nantwich  they  raised,  after  great  labor,  on  the 
hill,  and  rigged  with  halliards  flying  all  Captain 
Hardmood's  color-box  of  signals;  the  cabin  roof 
they  floated  bodily  ashore,  then  rebuilt  as  a  go- 
down  to  hold  their  meagre  property.  Birds 
haunted  them  at  work  or  play,  mewing  in  their 
ears.  Sunset  painted  the  water  and  the  sands, 
never  twice  alike,  but  gorgeously;  evening  lit  stars 
round  their  dungeon  wall;  the  birds  left  their 
screaming,  except  when  beaten  fishers,  that  flew 
home  late  with  talons  empty,  woke  their  fledglings 
to  hunger  and  disappointment  in  the  dark;  and  so 
night  after  night,  wide,  still,  and  more  consoling 
than  the  night  of  cities,  brought  sleep  to  all  but  the 
outlying  surf. 

"No  man,"  said  Godbolt,  one  afternoon,  "could 
ask  for  better,  some  respects.  The  old  sand-bank 
— she  taught  me  to  think,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 


62  THE    FAR    CRY 

They  were  walking,  three  abreast,  over  the 
bleached  gold-dust  of  the  shore,  toward  the  crag. 
Towering  between  his  two  friends,  the  bearded 
speaker  had  been  meditative.  He  took  a  roving 
sight  along  the  island. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  like  a  dark  sage  full  of  doc- 
trine, "she's  the  world  in  one  volume,  boys.  Life 
— you  never  hear  people  ask  outside  o'  print,  but 
all  hands  keep  guessing  one  way  or  other — what 
the  devil  is  Life,  anyhow?  This  island,  she  speaks 
up  pat,  and  tells  you,  from  A  to  Izzard." 

At  high  flood,  a  little  channel,  a  shallow  brook 
of  salt  water,  cut  off  the  birds'  ledge  from  the  sand- 
spit.  Now,  at  half-tide,  this  channel  had  van- 
ished, leaving  a  few  clear  pools  among  matted 
heads  of  wrack.  Toward  one  of  these  the  sailor 
bent,  like  a  man  who  could  lay  his  hand  on  any- 
thing required. 

"Here's  A,"  said  he.  "I'll  show  you  Izzard 
before  long.  Here's  A>  the  fore-side  o'  life  for 
you,  plain." 

From  under  brown  sea-weed,  he  dug  an  old, 
flat  shell,  in  shape  like  a  huge  ear.  Rough  sea- 
handling  had  polished  the  nacre  into  soft  colors 
and  gleams.  It  held  a  dirty  handful  of  gray  stuff 
clotted  together  like  wet  kernels  of  barley. 

"What's  those?"  demanded  Godbolt. 


ATOIZZARD  63 

Neither  of  his  pupils  could  answer. 

"And  you  know  Greek  I"  he  laughed,  poising  the 
shell  over  a  sand-basin  filled  with  brine.  "Come 
to  school,  my  sonnies !  Sand  crab  eggs,  they  are. 
Look  sharp,  now,  and  you'll  see  a  miracle — a  holy 
terror:  the  Word  made  Flesh,  and  no  mistake!" 

He  squatted  by  the  pool  in  the  sand,  a  burly 
worker  of  magic.  The  shell  dipped,  the  gray  clot 
crumbled  apart,  floated — and  faster  than  eye  could 
follow,  thicker  than  sparks,  the  barley-kernels, 
melting,  set  free  a  thousand  black  motes  that 
darted  hither  and  yon  through  the  water.  Life  had 
begun,  creatures  were  born  to  Fear.  Not  an  egg 
burst,  but  that  a  living  midge  knew  the  great  mo- 
tive instantly,  and  fled,  and  in  a  flash,  burrowing 
the  sand,  was  hidden.  Birth  and  flight,  birth  and 
flight  unerring,  by  myriads:  to  watch  this  boiling 
helter-skelter,  and  see  these  black  atoms  dart 
straightway  from  the  Devourer,  was  to  credit 
them  with  foreknowledge. 

"Someone  has  coached  'em,"  said  Godbolt,  peer- 
ing down.  "Someone  drills  it  into  crabs  for  years 
ahead: — 'Quick  as  you're  born,  get  under  cover!' 
— See  'em  pelting,  the  little  beggars,  away  from 
the  wrath  to  come.  That's  Life — to  be  scared, 
hey?" 

Sudden  as  it  began,  Godbolt's  miracle  ended, 


64  THEFARCRY 

like  a  pinch  of  powder  dissolved.  An  empty  shell 
lay  on  bottom,  reflecting  aerial  hues. 

"Now  for  Izzard."  The  master  of  this  nativity 
show,  laughing  quietly,  stood  up.  He  tramped  on 
through  puddles  of  shining  sea  water,  and  began 
to  climb  an  iron-red  buttress  of  the  crag.  "Same 
time,  we'll  set  our  bread  for  breakfast,  too." 

The  crest  of  the  rock,  won  by  hard  climbing, 
bore  a  spectacle  at  which  the  men,  even  after  daily 
visits,  could  not  cease  to  wonder.  From  the  soli- 
tude of  their  beach,  they  mounted  into  more  noise 
and  smell,  more  color  and  movement,  than  those 
of  any  fabulous  bazaar.  It  was  the  Chandni 
Chowk  of  sea-birds,  the  fort  and  crowded  capital 
of  Aristophanes's  kingdom.  A  flat  half-acre, 
coated  thickly  as  with  white  lead,  was  covered  by 
a  winged  host  of  every  size  and  name,  gannet, 
boatswain,  mutton-bird,  snowballs  of  baby  fluff, 
shapeless  Easter  rabbits  with  vermilion  noses, 
young  Phaethon  feathered  in  white  satin,  and 
breeding  frigate-birds  whose  bare  throats  shone 
raw  scarlet,  as  if  scraped  down  to  the  arteries. 
Beaks  of  blue,  beaks  of  amber  and  black  and  sul- 
phur yellow,  turned  idly  as  the  three  men  ad- 
vanced through  a  lane  which  opened  and  closed 
round  their  passage,  no  broader  than  the  birds 
chose  to  waddle  from  underfoot. 


ATOIZZARD  6s 

"I'll  set  our  bread  overnight."  Tisdale  stooped, 
and  pinching  his  nostrils,  smashed  a  square  yard  of 
varicolored  eggs.  He  took  the  bearings  of  the 
spot  carefully,  for  to-morrow's  breakfast,  new- 
laid,   would  cover  it.      "Wheel     Let's  move  to 

windward Now     where's     your     Izzard, 

Sainty?" 

Godbolt,  shin-deep  among  staring  fowl,  tugged 
his  black  beard. 

"Right  there,"  he  answered,  and  pointed 
gravely  to  an  outmost  pinnacle  of  basalt.  "There 
they  wait.  No  joke,  boys,  the  end  o'  the  alpha- 
bet." 

Apart  from  the  crowd,  apart  from  one  another, 
on  shelves  and  edges  of  the  rock  sat  a  few  droop- 
ing birds,  old  noddies  and  old  coots.  Most  of 
them  hung  motionless,  dejected;  though  now  and 
then  one  shifted  his  awkward  feet,  wagged  his 
tail-feathers  weakly,  or  craned  his  neck  with  pain- 
ful striving.  Too  old  to  fish,  too  feeble,  they  sat 
patiently  awaiting  the  end  of  all  aches  and  hun- 
gers. Behind  them,  eggs  might  hatch,  males  fight, 
loose  females  go  squinnying  and  squawking;  they, 
the  superannuated,  stared  blankly  before  them, 
and  shrugged  the  wings  they  could  not  lift. 

"I  watched  'em,  often."  Godbolt's  deep  voice 
was  lowered  as  though  he  spoke  beside  a  human 


66  THE    FAR    CRY 

sick-bed.  "Often.  There's  the  finish,  mates. 
That's  the  one  blessed  thing  I  felt  afraid  of,  liv- 
ing alone — that  kind  o'  sitting  still,  and  flapping 
yourself,  and  no  purpose  to  anybody." 

The  glow  of  late  afternoon  streamed  over  the 
ocean,  gilded  the  cliff,  rosily  warmed  the  huddling 
whiteness  of  the  birds,  and  lighted  soft  metallic 
sheen  on  colored  beak  or  burnished  feather.  To- 
ward the  rock,  from  every  point  of  the  horizon, 
the  fishers  flew  homeward — here  a  black  cormor- 
ant, whirring  low,  like  an  ill-made,  unbalanced  top 
with  wings  set  too  far  astern;  there  a  gull,  drop- 
ping for  another  dive,  and  yowling,  and  flogging 
the  air  as  he  rose  to  soar  again ;  above  these,  above 
the  light,  a  great  frigate  homing  in  one  swift  line, 
with  scissor-pointed  pinions  reefed  for  the  final 
swoop;  far  over  all,  a  white  star  that  winked  by 
daylight  in  the  blue,  came  high-flying  Phasthon,  the 
tropic-bird.  The  noise  of  each  laborer  joining  his 
family,  followed  shrill  and  loud  after  the  three 
men  as  they  returned  along  the  sunset  beach. 

They  walked  in  silence,  for  that  parable  of  the 
old  noddies  remained;  somehow,  it  drew  about 
them  the  heaviness  of  their  prison-house,  closer 
and  more  darkly  than  at  any  night-waking  hour; 
and  yet,  as  each  man  plodded  thoughtfully  on  the 
heels  of  his  long-drawn  shadow,  he  was  revolving, 


ATOIZZARD  67 

not  their  own  confinement  on  the  island,  but  that 
wider  confinement  of  which  it  seemed  an  image — 
the  old  jail  of  mortality,  and  the  invisible  jailor. 

At  one  place  on  the  beach,  they  found  them- 
selves halted  by  a  common  impulse,  as  though  they 
had  reached  the  same  point  in  a  brown  study. 

"Godbolt,"  Wallace  broke  out,  "I  take  it  you're 
a  pessimist?" 

His  question  seemed  to  know  its  answer  before- 
hand, and  approve.  The  sailor,  casting  down  his 
eyes,  shifted  uneasily. 

"Why,  no,"  he  muttered,  juggling  the  sand  with 
his  toes.  He  had  a  shamefaced,  hang-dog  air.  "I 
ain't  even  that,  thorough.  You  see "  He  fal- 
tered in  growing  embarrassment — "you  see,  boys, 
I  never  had  the  schooling.  I  read  some,  but  never 
so  far's  to  be  anything.  Now,  does  your  pessimist 
ever  get  jammed  into  squeaking  out  a  prayer, 
might  say?" 

Tisdale  gave  a  delighted  laugh. 

"Not  until  he's  met  a  real  scare,  Sainty." 

Godbolt  glanced  up,  with  a  smile  round  his 
black  eyes ;  then,  more  sheepish  than  ever,  looked 
down  and  juggled  his  toes. 

"Why,   there  you   are:   I  wasn't  even  scairt. 

Don't  see  how  I  ever  came  to  do  it,  unless " 

He  paused,  as  to  confess  a  crime — "unless  being 


68  THE    FAR    CRY 

lonesome.  You  know,  something  began  to  carry 
on  fierce,  inside  here" — He  struck  his  chest  like  a 
drum — "fierce,  a-toothaching  and  a-smouldering 
where  you  couldn't  reach  her,  the  way  soft  coal 
sweats  afire  in  the  hold.  Diagnosis  hit  me  all 
aback,  one  day.  I  never  made  a  bow  nor  crooked 
a  joint,  but  stood  right  up  in  my  tracks  with  a  big 
fresh  boatswain's  egg  in  my  hand  as  it  happened, 
and  'O  Lord,'  says  I,  'if  you're  hatching  the  whole 
hurrah's  nest,  as  some  let  on — here,  take  charge  o' 
my  soul,  if  that's  what  I'm  suffering  from.'  " 

The  bearded  apologist  made  but  one  gesture,  as 
if  plucking  something  from  his  bosom  and  tossing 
it  into  the  air.  Tisdale  smiled  and  nodded  at  the 
pantomime. 

"What  result?"  said  Wallace. 

"Result?"  cried  the  other.  "Never  bothered 
since!" 

He  started  on  briskly,  toward  the  green  hillock, 
the  palms,  and  the  mast  beyond,  where  the  string 
of  signal  flags  fluttered  in  warm  light.  His  alac- 
rity had  returned  full  force :  even  his  companions 
caught  the  infection,  and  copied  his  pace. 

"So  you're  happy" — It  was  Wallace  who  re- 
opened their  peripatetic  argument — "to  live  here 
always,  till  we  drop  off  into  the  water,  like  those 
sick  old  birds?" 


ATOIZZARD  69 

The  sailor  was  not  to  be  pent  by  narrow  con- 
sistencies. 

"Happy?  Not  for  Joe !"  he  bellowed  in  wrath. 
"Think  a  man's  a  fool?  Happy?  It  drives  rqe 
fair  cannibal!" 

He  bounded  up  where  the  path,  a  rivulet  of  yel- 
low sand,  came  tumbling  through  the  bush.  Here 
he  stopped,  to  fill  the  sea-shell  pipe  with  tobacco. 
Matches  being  too  precious,  and  their  vestal  fire 
of  banked  embers  too  far  ahead,  he  struck  no 
light,  but  puffed  his  "dry  smoke"  with  moderate 
satisfaction. 

"We'll  get  off,"  he  mumbled,  gazing  to  sea  over 
the  green  tops  of  shrubbery.  "We'll  win  off  the 
island,  boys.  The  means  will  come.  All  in  good 
time." 

He  stood  listening  to  the  surf,  a  dreary  whisper 
roundabout;  then  flung  a  hand  impatiently,  and 
marched  inland. 

The  means  would  come,  sooner  than  they 
thought.  It  was  not  on  land,  or  sailing  the  sea,  or 
traveling  in  any  form  the  wisest  of  them  might 
have  guessed;  but  already  it  was  on  the  way,  to 
bring  aid  by  fighting  its  own  battle,  enduring  its 
own  hardship. 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE    SPENT   MESSENGER 

A  great  wind  startled,  them  at  bed-time,  rush- 
ing through  the  leaves  and  rattling  the  bee- 
hive thatch.  All  night  a  gale  poured  westerly, 
plantains  flapped  their  ragged  pennants,  palm 
fronds  crackled  like  hail,  the  four  palm  trunks  bent 
and  creaked.  Sleep  came  by  fits;  but  even  to  sleep 
was  to  be  carried  in  spirit  down  a  river  of  air, 
through  tossing  trees.  Next  morning,  and  all  day, 
the  hubbub  grew.  No  rain  fell,  but  the  bush  hissed 
with  driven  sand,  a  dark  conflagration  of  clouds 
rolled  overhead,  and  as  the  sea  bombarded  with 
huge  guns  on  every  hand,  wraiths  of  tall  spray 
drifted  falling  across  the  island.  The  castaways 
lay  low,  rubbed  the  dust  from  their  eyes,  shivered, 
and  swore;  for  of  all  things,  wind  and  hopping 
sand  they  felt  were  the  most  tiresome. 

"  'C'est  le  vent  de  la  mer  qui  nous  tourmenteP  " 
sang  Tisdale,  to  vary  the  uproar.    The  other  two 

70 


THE   SPENT   MESSENGER     71 

kicked  at  him,  crying  "Shut  up  I*1  Their  torment 
was  plain  enough.  They  had  no  hint  that  any 
courier  was  riding  the  blast. 

"She,"  declared  Godbolt,  naming  the  gale  by 
allegory,  "she's  only  whisking  the  tail  of  her  skirt 
over  us,  here.  She's  going  somewhere  else,  though, 
to  raise  hob." 

On  the  following  midnight,  they  woke  to  find 
every  leaf  quiet,  the  air  warm  again,  stars  burn- 
ing, and  all  hushed  but  the  terrific  boom  of  the 
surge. 

And  so  next  morning,  when  they  went  to  fish, 
hot  sunshine  blinded  them,  outrageous  noise  made 
them  deaf.  Their  fishing  was  robbery.  They 
had  only  to  scale  the  crag,  creep  among  the  sea- 
fowl,  and  watch  for  some  bewildered  noddy,  dodg- 
ing the  frigate-birds  and  other  pirates  that  dark- 
ened the  air,  to  alight  and  drop  his  catch.  Thus, 
in  a  forenoon,  the  men  could  steal  a  basketful  of 
live  fish,  purple,  silver,  red-striped,  or  motley  blue. 
As  the  defrauded  bird,  screeching  with  hunger, 
always  flew  up  and  off  to  sea  again,  they  thought 
their  method  cruel  even  while  they  snatched;  and 
therefore,  by  a  kindly  figment  called  the  Game 
Laws,  they  were  forbidden  to  steal  fish  after  mid- 
day, or  more  than  thrice  a  week. 

This   morning,   they  tramped   to   their   sport 


72  THEFARCRY 

under  a  white,  roaring  rampart  of  surf.  Timbers 
from  the  vessel  dotted  the  strand  like  charred  piles 
hammered  askew;  there  was  a  villainous  odor  of 
stale  eggs,  smashed  by  the  gale;  nor  was  it  won- 
derful to  find,  here  and  there  along  the  beach,  a 
dead  bird  jumbled  with  weeds,  or  dryblown  into 
a  quivering  tussock  of  sand  and  feathers. 

"There's  a  white  one,"  said  Tisdale,  pausing. 
"What  kind,  Sainty?" 

They  stood  near  the  tidal  brook,  or  channel, 
darkened  by  the  morning  shadow  of  the  crag. 

"Young  gull,"  Wallace  declared  without  look- 
ing.   "Storm  killed  it." 

On  wet  sand,  just  above  the  foam  and  whiter 
than  the  foam,  lay  the  body  of  a  small  bird,  with 
head  and  wings  outstretched.  So  often  had  they 
found  stray  fowl,  of  unknown  species,  lying  dead 
in  the  same  flat  exhaustion,  that  they  might  easily 
have  passed  this  white  stranger,  and  let  the  next 
wave  roll  him  away. 

"Gull?"  Godbolt  crouched  over  it.  "Gull— 
your  aunty's  pet  canary. — Why!  Look!  Boys — by 
goles — it  is!" 

He  rose,  lifting  the  bird  tenderly.  The  wings, 
limp  and  white,  spread  across  his  flannel  shirt  as 
though  the  Dove  of  Heaven  had  flown  straight 
into  his  bosom,  and  expired. 


THE    SPENT    MESSENGER     73 

"A  pigeon,  boys."    He  slid  one  hand  under  the 

rumpled  feathers,  and  stood  very  still.     "Alive? 

No.     Can't  find  the  heart.     Warm,  though.     A 

young  he,  looks  like.     What's  a  pigeon  doing  at 

1  sea?" 

His  friends  drew  near,  and  watched  him  turn 
the  bird  carefully  over,  holding  it  in  the  crook  of 
his  arm,  and  smoothing  its  white  feathers.  The 
pink  claws  were  shriveled  together,  gripped  in  one 
last  agony  of  flight. 

"Look!"  All  three  cried,  regardless,  jostling 
and  disputing.  "Stand  clear!  Look!  Get  out  o' 
my  light !    What's  that  ?" 

A  pigeon  it  was,  alive  or  dead — a  pigeon,  but 

something  more.    Its  legs,  though  both  powdered 

with    sand,    were   of   different   colors — one    rosy 

, coral,  the  other  puffed  by  some  yellow  excrescence 

or  scab. 

"Homer!"  Godbolt  shouted.     "A  homer!" 

"A  what?"  cried  the  others,  marveling  at  him. 

"Homer !"  He  bellowed  fiercely  this  name  of  a 
blind  bard,  and  pointed  at  the  yellow  leg  as  if  Troy 
had  fallen  through  this  very  ailment  in  pigeons. 
"A  homer!" 

Tisdale  and  Wallace  bent  their  turbans  yet 
more  closely.  Both  at  once,  they  saw  what  God- 
bolt  was  trying  to  say.     The  pigeon's  leg  was 


74  THE    FAR    CRY 

glossed  and  swollen,  not  by  any  sore  or  disease, 
but  by  a  wrapping  of  oiled  silk,  ringed  with  two 
ligatures  of  yellow  thread. 

"A  carrier  1" 

Godbolt  snorted. 

"What  else  have  I  been  telling  you,  this  half 
hour?  A  homer  he,  'tis.  Carrier  pigeon,  with 
a  message.  Here!"  His  right  hand  fumbled  in 
the  pocket  of  his  moleskins,  and  drew  out  a  pair 
of  old  stubby  scissors,  bright-polished  with  sand. 
"Behold — ecce  signum!  I  wondered,  many's  the 
time,  why  that  instrument  got  left  ashore  with  a 
man.  Not  just  for  clipping  a  beard,  was  it,  now? 
Talk  about  shears  o'  fate!  Comes  handy."  He 
spread  the  blades.  "Here :  take  a  purchase  on  his 
off  claw." 

Wallace  held  the  bird's  leg.  Deft  as  any  sur- 
geon, Godbolt  snipped  the  bands  of  thread,  un- 
rolled the  yellow  silk,  and  from  under  that  cover- 
ing peeled  off  a  cylinder  of  tough  "onion  skin" 
paper,  which  came  free  in  his  hand  only  to  curl 
again,  tighter  than  a  cigarette. 

"There's  writing  inside."  Godbolt  returned  the 
scissors  to  his  pocket;  and  his  fingers,  which  a  mo- 
ment ago  had  worked  so  neatly  and  steadily,  be- 
gan to  tremble.  "Ink  shows  through.  Take  it, 
Arthur!     I'm  all  thumbs.     Read  off,  quick!" 


THE    SPENT    MESSENGER     75 

He  handed  over  the  spill  of  paper;  then,  cod- 
dling the  pigeon  in  his  arms,  he  sat  down  on  the 
sand,  turned  his  face  away,  and  seemed  to  avoid 
the  shock  of  unbearable  tidings. 

Yet  when  Tisdale  had  pitched  his  voice  higher 
than  the  surf,  what  he  read  sounded  tame  enough. 
The  first  words  dealt  with  latitude  and  longitude, 
and  a  date  now  two  days  old;  the  rest  might  have 
been  carpet  phrases  from  any  parlor. 

"Dear  K." — ran  the  message,  as  it  un- 
rolled like  a  snip  of  ancient  manuscript — 
"Dear  K.,  I  trust  this  will  find  you  all  well  at 
Pulo  Princess.  I  am  in  capital  health  and 
spirits,  5  days  out,  everything  on  board  ex- 
tremely comfy,  if  rather  a  bore.  Please  don't 
allow  the  Grandpater  to  fret.  I  feel  confi- 
dent of  setting  matters  right.  You  will  ig- 
nore the  Pretender,  of  course;  for  as  I  told 
you,  the  man  is  imbecile.  He  can  do  nothing 
but  threaten.    Be  well. — Yrs.,  W.  F." 

Three  or  four  waves  roared  in,  tumbled  up  the 
beach,  slid  down  again,  before  anybody  spoke. 

"Well,  that's  something."  Tisdale,  holding  the 
paper  ribbon  at  full  stretch,  re-read  it  silently,  and 
frowned. 


76  THEFARCRY 

"Something!"  cried  Wallace,  bitterly.  "I'll 
take  my  oath  it's  not  much !" 

He  had  been  staring  voraciously  over  the  read- 
er's elbow.  Suddenly  he  struck  at  the  paper, 
turned,  and  clapped  both  fists  on  his  temples,  as 
if  despair  could  pierce  like  a  headache. 

uNo,"  agreed  Tisdale,  calmly.  "Not  much. 
Queer  things — hopes.     Aren't  they?" 

Godbolt  sat  quiet  with  his  Dove  of  Heaven. 
He  had  never  stirred.  A  deaf  mute  could  not 
have  shown  less  emotion.  Presently,  without  look- 
ing, he  reached  round  one  hand. 

"Let's  wedge  that  writing  open,"  he  demanded, 
in  a  voice  which  made  the  other  men  jump. 
"There's  meat  for  us  in  the  nut,  if  we  can  crack 
her." 

He  laid  the  pigeon  across  his  knees,  and  with 
a  stern,  dogged  air  sat  reading  the  paper  band 
from  top  to  bottom. 

"English  hand  of  write,"  said  he,  "if  I  can  tell 
a  B  from  a  bull's  foot.  English.  Book  style  o' 
thinking.  What  a  whale  of  an  Ego,  boys:  all 
about  his  dear  little  gory  self,  his  health  and  his 
comfort,  while  calling  other  chaps  imbecile. — Prin- 
cess Island — no  such  place!  Porto  Princesa  we 
know,  on  Palawan;  but  this  says  Pulo  Princess 
Island.    Ever  hear  o'  that?" 


THE    SPENT    MESSENGER     77 

The  pair  of  listeners  could  not  help  him.  They 
shook  their  heads,  gloomily;  but  still,  to  miss  no 
chance  word  through  all  the  uproar  of  ocean,  they 
bent  down  in  leap-frog  fashion,  hands  on  knees. 

"Me  neither."  Godbolt  sharpened  his  black 
eye-brows  over  the  writing.  "  *W.  F.'  That 
sounds  probable.  *W.  F.'  Funny,  if  it  was! — 
'Dear  K.,'  now.  What  sort  o'  woman,  you  s'pose, 
his  dear  Kate?" 

Wallace  rebuked  this  trifling. 

"Woman?"  he  jeered.  "K  might  stand  for 
Kenneth,  my  friend,  or  Karl." 

The  sailor  nodded  at  him,  shrewdly,  with  twink- 
ling eyes. 

"So  it  might,  so  it  might,"  he  confessed.  "But 
your  Karls  and  your  Kenneths,  all  the  King's 
horses  and  all  the  King's  men,  can't  wheedle  their 
old  grandfather  out  o'  fretting.  That's  a  woman's 
work,  son.    Kate's  her  name,  I'll  bet  my  scissors." 

Tisdale  gave  a  laugh,  for  he  liked  the  by-play. 

"Kate  or  not,  Sainty,  she  couldn't  help  us  much." 

Godbolt  looked  up,  surprised  and  offended. 

"I'm  thinking  she  could,"  he  boomed,  angrily. 
"Help  us  or  hurt  us — that's  a  woman's  liveli- 
hood, too.  Makes  a  remarkable  odds,  people 
say.  Which  kind  will  this  Kate  be,  when  we  get 
there?" 


78  THEFARCRY 

His  indignation  rang  out  so  honest,  he  spoke 
of  the  future  with  so  much  heat  and  perplexity, 
that  both  the  leap-frog  players  rose  erect,  and 
stared.  He  must  have  read  the  riddle,  after  all. 
They  cried  together,  eagerly : 

"Where?    When  we  get  where?" 

Godbolt  shook  the  paper  strip  at  them. 

"When  we  land  where  she  lives,  o'  course." 

A  torrent  of  questions  beat  upon  him.  The 
leap-frog  backs  were  bent  again. 

"Where's  that?  What  do  you  mean,  Sainty? 
Look  here.  How  do  you  know?  Does  the  paper 
say?  Don't  sit  there  and  grin,  old  boy.  Where 
is  it?    Who  is  she?" 

The  sailor  promptly  cast  a  wet  blanket  on  their 
ardor. 

"Who?  How  should  I  know?  Never  heard 
of  her  before,"  he  grumbled;  and  letting  the  writ- 
ten message  curl  back  to  its  former  shape,  he  put 
it  in  his  pocket.  "Guess-work,  that's  all.  But  the 
document's  plain  enough  to  figure  on." 

He  stood  up.  The  white  bird  spread  lifeless, 
wing  and  wing,  on  his  breast. 

"No  fishing  to-day.  Let's  get  back  under  shade, 
boys,  in  the  bee-hive.  Council  o'  war — large  talk 
and  hefty,  we  must  hold." 

He  stalked  away  homeward,  wrapped  in  his 


THE    SPENT    MESSENGER     79 

own  thoughts.  Over  the  storm-littered  shore,  up 
the  dune,  into  the  windings  of  the  bush,  his  two 
friends  followed  close  at  heel,  like  a  pair  of  Ham- 
lets imploring  a  stalwart  ghost  to  halt  and  speak 
in  full  daylight.  Thus  they  came  to  the  loggia  of 
palms,  and  entered  the  bee-hive. 

"Now  for  your  talk,"  said  Wallace. 

"Yes,"  replied  their  leader,  absently.  He 
placed  the  bird  on  a  mattress,  and  began  hunting 
roundabout,  with  the  lack-lustre  eye  of  one  who 
searches  rather  for  an  idea  than  for  an  object. 
"Yes.  We  must  make  that  cage.  A  little  cage. 
Sticks  will  do,  or  splints  o'  palm.  A  tidy  little 
cage,  now." 

Tisdale  stepped  in  front  of  him,  took  him  by  the 
shoulder,  and  gave  him  a  shake. 

"Your  mind  outruns  your  tongue,  Sainty. 
Aren't  we  to  work  together,  all  three?  Come  back, 
my  wandering  boy,  and  look  me  in  the  face.  What 
are  all  these  murmurs  about  a  cage?  And  what's 
that  paper?" 

Godbolt  returned  slowly  out  of  his  musing. 

"Paper?"  He  drew  from  his  pocket  the  roll  of 
stubborn  tissue,  and  held  it  up.  "That?  Why, 
that's  our  walking-ticket.  Don't  you  understand? 
Our  sailing-orders.     I  told  you." 

Tisdale  shook  him  again,  laughing. 


80  THEFARCRY 

"You  never  said  a  word.  And  here  we  are, 
ready  to  split  with  ignorance,  old  fellow." 

Godbolt  echoed  the  laugh,  his  white  teeth  flash- 
ing in  his  beard. 

"Wouldn't  that  scandalize  your  mainsail !"  he 
crowed.  "And  me  taking  it  for  granted!  Shows 
you :  when  a  man  talks  too  much  by  habit,  like  me, 

he  thinks  he's  talking  all  the  time.    Well ! Sit 

down,  boys,  and  have  it  out." 

They  squatted  on  the  floor  of  sand.  By  in- 
stinct, all  three  faced  the  dirty  mattress  where  the 
clean  bird  lay. 

"I  felt  it  in  my  bones,"  declared  Godbolt,  "be- 
fore you  read  it  out:  'Here  comes  our  sailing- 
orders.  We're  not  long  for  this  island.  No 
more  tarrying  here.'  And  somehow  it  hit  me  a 
solemn  poke."  He  nodded  slowly  at  his  compan- 
ions. "Like  dying,  boys.  Will  it  be  better,  s'pose, 
or  worse,  where  we're  going?" 

Even  Wallace  felt  a  shade  of  presentiment;  but 
waving  it  aside 

"Where  do  we  go,  then?"  he  began,  briskly. 
"Where,  and  how?" 

Godbolt  stroked  his  beard  before  answering. 

"Where  and  how?  That's  it,  Rob.  Where  and 
how,  if  we're  set  free  at  all?  Depends."  He 
raised  his  black  eyes,  to  glance  toward  the  mattress 


THE    SPENT    MESSENGER     81 

and  the  spent  messenger  lying  there.  "Whole 
thing  depends,  Rob,  on  whether  that  pigeon's  been 
told  to  live  or  die." 


CHAPTER    VII 


CRAS    INGENS 


"Live  or  die?"  Godbolt  repeated  his  own 
words,  flippantly.  "Go  or  stay?"  He  took  a 
pinch  of  sand  from  the  floor,  tossed  it  in  the  air 
like  a  jack-stone,  and  caught  it  on  the  broad  back 
of  his  hand.  "Head  or  tails?  A  cage  for  the 
bird,  or — this  cage  for  us?  If  he  lives,  we  follow 
him  and  go;  if  he  dies  .  .  .  Well,  that  bundle  o' 
feathers  is  buried  easy,  brothers,  cheaper  than 
most  of  us;  and  we  stay.  Been  happy  here  on  the 
old  island." 

Sunshine,  flickering  among  plantain  leaves  and 
scrub  ironwood,  poured  under  their  stilted  dome  a 
changing,  holiday  light.  It  made  the  shadows 
dance,  played  on  the  men's  faces,  and  like  a  fiddler 
outside  a  church,  mocked  every  word  with  bright 
allegro. 

Tisdale  unwound  his  red  turban,  folded  it  away, 
and  rumpled  his  hair  for  the  debate. 

82 


CRASINGENS  83 

"Francis  Godbolt,"  he  opened  formally:  "you 
are  a  man  of  two  tongues  this  morning.  You  say 
the  bird  may  die,  and  leave  us  here  for  keeps,  if 
I  understand  you ;  but  in  those  big  prophetic  bones, 
you're  feeling  the  bird's  to  live,  and  we're  to  go — 
somewhere.  Now  why?  Deliver  yourself,  An- 
cient Pistol,  like  a  man  of  this  world.  Whip  her 
out :  why  should  our  lives  hang  on  a  pigeon's  ?" 

Godbolt  played  with  his  pinch  of  sand,  until 
the  last  grain  slid  through  his  fingers. 

"Ever  hear  the  nursery  moral,"  he  began,  sit- 
ting up  and  squaring  his  elbows,  "about  the  king- 
dom lost  for  a  horse-shoe  nail?  Because  this  is 
that  kind  o'  concatenation,  too.  Men  and  pigeons 
count  about  even,  though  we  can  pout  bigger. — 
Now,  then,  pay  attention !"  And  his  deep  voice 
flowed  on,  pausing  only  to  let  the  greater  waves 
resound  and  cease  beyond  the  trees. 

"Pulo  Princess:  that,  I  make  it,  is  a  fancy  term, 
a  private  nickname  for  some  place  where  an  Eng- 
lish family  lives.  The  handwriting's  English;  and 
they  love  to  clap  a  tom-fool  title  on  their  house  and 
garden-patch.  They'd  clap  it  on  an  island,  like 
as  not,  and  then  settle  down  to  their  tea,  all  proper. 
Now,  Fraye's  Atoll's  an  island.  Fraye's  Atoll 
does  lie  somewhere  in  these. waters.  Fraye's  Atoll, 
I've  heard  say,  does  contain  a  British  family.  Tea- 


84  THE    FAR    CRY 

pot,  too,  that  case.  Well :  'W.  F.'  might  be  some 
W.  Fraye  Esquire,  in  good  health,  says  he,  and 
rather  bawed. — That's  a  long  guess,  though. 
Now  lay  hold  o'  facts." 

Godbolt  began  tracing  the  sand  with  one  finger, 
intently,  as  if  drawing  a  map  of  his  thoughts. 

"Carrier  that  brought  our  dispatch — the  pigeon, 
here — flew  against  the  wind.  Flew  east,  the 
spunky  little  mite  did,  beak  to  storm  until  he 
dropped.  Stands  to  reason,  then,  that  W.  F.  Es- 
quire and  his  vessel  are  off  to  west'ard,  well  to 
west'ard;  and  that " 

Both  hearers  cut  short  his  lecture,  slapping  him 
on  the  back,  and  trying  to  shake  three  pairs  of 
hands  all  round. 

uAnd  that  Pulo  Princess  lies  to  eastward  .  .  . 
Fraye's  Atoll  ...  to  eastward  .  .  .  near  by! 
Yea-a-ay!     English,  too,  there's  luck! 

"  'Forever  let  Britannia  wield 
The  tea-pot  of  her  sires!*  " 

In  uproarious  high  spirits,  they  fell  upon  God- 
bolt  and  mauled  him,  shouting  abusive  compli- 
ments. He  laughed,  and  like  a  good-humored 
bear,  administered  one  cuff  to  the  right,  another 
to  the  left,  which  laid  them  flat  on  the  sand. 


CRAS    INGENS  85 

"Down,  whelps!"  he  cried.  "Moderate  your 
transports.  To  east'ard,  yes:  but  east'ard's  a  big 
order.  Northeast,  or  southeast?  You  tell  me 
that :  for  by  gravy,  it  makes  a  difference,  ye  wild- 
cats!" 

They  sat  up,  mortified  and  humbled. 

"So  it  does,"  they  admitted.  "Which  is  it, 
Francis?    How  shall  we  know?" 

He  tugged  his  black  beard,  and  gave  a  still 
more  chastening  frown. 

"I've  seen  Kanakas,"  he  resumed,  after  a  long 
pause,  and  in  a  reminiscent  mood,  "I've  seen  Ellice 
Kanakas  follow  a  tame  frigate  home  between 
islands.  Nigger  padres  trained  'em,  those  birds, 
to  fetch  and  carry  letters.  Well,  set  your  com- 
pass by  a  pigeon's  line,  and  steer  so?  Three  days 
out,  say,  and  if  you  don't  sight  land,  back  home 
again,  no  harm  done.  Why  not? — unless  that 
pigeon  goes  dead  on  us." 

Wallace  jumped  up,  and  made  a  step  toward  the 
mattress  as  if  he  would  wrench  the  little  sufferer 
back  to  life  by  force. 

"Hands  off!"  commanded  the  sailor.  "Put  a 
cup  o'  water  alongside,  and  let  him  alone!" 

Tisdale  stared  at  the  dove,  then  at  his  protec- 
tor. 

"Sainty,"  he  faltered,  "sure  he's  not  dead?" 


86  THE    FAR    CRY 

Godbolt  calmed  them  both,  beckoning  sternly. 

"Sit  down.  Sit  down  and  wait.  Til  bring  the 
water.  No  false  hope,  now,  boys,  but — I  felt  his 
heart  flitter,  like,  while  being  carried." 

He  rose,  reached  down  a  tin  cup  from  a  hollow 
in  the  thatch,  and  disappeared  outdoors.  His  voice 
died  away  and  then  returned,  carolling  through  the 
sun-lit  bush : 

"  'Hop  up,  jump  up,  pretty  little  yella-bird, 
Hop  up,  jump  up,  don't  fly  away! 
Hop  up,  jump  up,  pretty  little  yella-bird, 
Stay  a  little  longer,  it  ain't  quite  day!' 

"Time,"  he  announced,  coming  quietly  as  into 
a  sickroom.  "Give  the  bird  time,  Rob.  That's 
all  I  meant,  speaking  to  you  so  brisk." 

He  placed  the  brimming  cup  on  the  mattress.  A 
white  spark  of  sunshine  fell  through  the  water, 
and  started  phosphorescent  gleams  to  quiver  and 
dazzle  in  the  apex  of  the  roof.  The  men  sat 
watching  in  fascination,  like  crystal-gazers,  the 
spark  that  winked  from  the  cup  so  mocking  and 
vital,  the  pigeon  that  lay  beside  it  so  dead. 

Gradually,  this  contrast  faded.  The  water  in 
the  tin  cup  grew  still,  the  light  went  out.  High 
noon  smothered  the  island  and  filled  the  bush  with 


CRASINGENS  87 

hot,  narcotic  smells.  When  all  the  world  lay  bur- 
ied in  drowsiness,  Tisdale  bent  forward. 

"Ssh!    It  moved." 

Each  man  thought  his  heart  was  pounding  more 
loudly  than  the  surf.  They  joined  hands  for  a 
moment,  to  repress  one  another,  and  to  form  a 
current  of  anxiety. 

The  pigeon's  eyelid,  a  horny  gray  film,  had 
wrinkled.  A  slit  appeared.  Then  suddenly  a 
round  topaz  eye  considered  the  trite  question  of 
individual  existence,  and  shut  up. 

"Alive!    Coming  to !" 

The  trio  stole  outdoors,  hid  behind  a  palm- 
trunk,  and  there  consulted  as  if  that  weary  topaz 
eye  might  be  watching  their  privacy. 

"Build  the  cage,"  whispered  one.  "Sit  by  him," 
said  another,  "so  that  he  can't  fly  off." — "Over- 
haul the  boat."— "Feed  him." 

They  separated  like  plotters  bound  on  various 
furtive  errands :  Godbolt  into  the  bush,  to  gather 
splints  for  a  bird-cage;  Tisdale  home,  to  make 
ready  a  diet  of  rice,  and  stand  guard;  Wallace 
toward  the  cabin  go-down,  the  stores,  and  the  boat. 
They  met  for  supper,  and  passed  a  silent  evening 
in  the  hut,  extravagantly  burning  the  remainder  of 
their  first  candle.  No  king  had  ever  a  death-bed 
more  jealously  attended  than  this  dingy  mattress 


88  THE    FAR    CRY 

where  the  pigeon  lay.  Nobody  spoke ;  all  suffered 
an  acute  suspense.  It  was  a  hot,  windless  night. 
The  candle-flame  rose  long  and  sharp  as  a  willow- 
leaf;  indoor  and  outdoor  shadows  hung  on  the 
verge  of  moving,  afraid  to  start;  and  round  the 
yellow  funnel  of  the  ceiling,  even  the  neat  sailor- 
made  stitches  of  coir  showed  like  drops  of  jet 
lengthening  to  fall. 

The  ship's  clock  rang  four  bells.  Not  long  af- 
terward, the  pigeon  gave  a  little  shudder,  drew  his 
wings  in  slightly  for  support,  and  lifting  his  bill, 
winked  peacefully  at  the  candle. 

Before  eight  bells  on  the  midnight,  he  had  drunk 
water,  and  gone  safe  to  bed  in  the  clumsy  cage  of 
Godbolt's  plaiting. 

"The  king's  going  to  live!"  sighed  Tisdale. 
"Long  live  the  king,  fellow  physicians !" 

"Lucky  job,"  said  Wallace. 

They  were  for  shaking  hands  boisterously,  but 
Godbolt's  manner  chilled  them. 

"Good  so  far,"  was  his  only  comment.  "Sleep 
well,  boys." 

He  blew  out  the  guttering  candle-end,  as  he  had 
done  before,  on  their  first  night  together.  And 
later,  while  Wallace  lay  snoring,  and  the  sea  flung 
down  rumbling  burdens  in  the  dark,  Tisdale  heard 
the  same  light  footstep  pass  and  re-pass  without, 


CRAS    INGENS  89 

among  the  palms.  As  no  answer  came  to  his  call, 
he  let  the  footstep  continue,  and  fell  asleep,  won- 
dering. 

Within  two  days,  the  small  boat  Nantwich 
Number  Two — the  black  lap-streak — lay  ready 
for  launching,  rebuilt  with  a  Malay  outrigger  and 
a  huge  spread  of  canvas  finned  out  with  battens, 
like  the  sail  of  a  Chinese  junk  or  a  Marblehead 
racing  dory.  Her  voyage  would  be  a  race,  indeed 
— a  dash  toward  unknown  fortunes.  Her  pilot, 
the  carrier  dove,  was  beating  his  white  feathers  on 
the  bars  of  his  cage,  and  pecking  out  angrily. 

Godbolt  came  to  breakfast  in  low  spirits  that 
day. 

"What's  wrong,  Sainty?"  inquired  Tisdale. 
"Britannia's  tea-pot?  Afraid  of  W.  Fraye  Es- 
quire and  the  everlasting  muffin?  Come,  play  the 
man!    We  sail  to-morrow." 

Godbolt,  eating  a  chuit  egg,  left  the  spoon  in 
the  shell.  ^ 

"I  know  we  do,"  he  replied,  heavily.  "Ain't 
there  a  Latin  piece,  'Cras  Ingens'  ...  I  forget. 
'To-morrow,'  it  says,  'we  hoist  up  on  the  ocean'?" 

"  'To-morrow  on  the  huge'  " — began  his  friend. 

He  groaned,  and  raised  a  hand. 

"To-morrow  the  Big,"  said  he,  as  if  the  frag- 
ment more  than  satisfied  him.     "That's  it.     Let 


9o  THEFARCRY 

the  rest  go. — To-morrow  the  Big.     It's  a  good 
kind  o'  motto." 

He  sat  thinking. 

"Too  big  for  me,  this  time!"  he  declared,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "Queer  feeling — never  had  it  be- 
fore. A  qualm  like  a  woman's.  I  hate  to  go, 
somehow.  Boys,  you'd  better  leave  me  behind. 
Don't  cross  your  luck." 

The  two  landsmen  sat  like  angry  Buddhas 
turned  to  stone. 

"Leave  you?  Great  Heavens,  man!"  they  im- 
plored, when  speech  returned  to  them.  "Leave 
you  behind?  How'd  we  know  the  way,  even? 
You're  captain  for  the  voyage.  Don't  you  see? 
We're  lost,  if  you  .  .  .  Sainty,  old  duffer,  you're 
captain!" 

They  argued,  reviled,  and  for  a  quarter  hour 
sang  his  praise  without  effect.  He  waited,  not  so 
much  harkening  as  letting  a  mood  pass.  At  last, 
suddenly,  he  confronted  them  with  black  eyes 
bright  and  ready. 

"Captain?  Good!"  he  said,  curtly.  "On  con- 
dition, this  way.  You,  owners  of  the  Nantzvicli 
Number  Two  boat,  hire  me  to  fetch  her  to  Pulo 
Princess,  if  possible.  You  take  my  orders  while 
afloat,  or  I  log  you  to  your  face.  For  serving  as 
master,  you  pay  me:    two  and  a  half  packets  o' 


CRAS    INGENS  91 

tobacco,  already  advanced;  one  red  bandanna,  like 
yours,  for  I'm  mortal  sick  of  packing  my  head  in  a 
home-wove  basket;  two  suits  of  white  drill,  Rob's 
for  choice,  he  being  thicker  set;  and  the  use  of  a 
razor.  There's  every  term,  article,  stipulation, 
and  emolument,  for  you  to  take  or  leave.    Amen." 

He  hung  his  head,  as  though  ashamed.  The 
owners  made  a  mistake  by  laughing. 

"Why,  Sainty,  you  could  have  taken  those  things 
any  day,  for  the  asking!" 

Godbolt  stood  up,  haughty  and  straight. 

"May  be,"  he  answered,  stiffly.  "But  a  man 
don't  ask. — Shore  ways  for  shore.  To  sea,  dis- 
cipline, with  your  wage  and  your  papers  all  under- 
stood.   You  know  my  terms,  gentlemen." 

He  was  marching  out  among  the  palms.  Wal- 
lace ran  after,  overtook  him,  and  held  out  a  pro- 
pitiatory gift — a  worn  leather  case. 

"Here,  Mr.  Godbolt,  for  God's  sake,"  he  stam- 
mered. "My  shaving-set.  Let's  have  no  quar- 
rel." 

Tisdale's  tribute  was  an  armful  of  white  cloth- 
ing. 

"Go  draught  your  papers."  The  sailor  took 
this  earnest  of  his  bargain,  and  moved  off,  grin- 
ning, down  the  path  which  led  toward  the  spring. 
"Draught  your  articles,  I'll  sign  'em.     All  right, 


92  THEFARCRY 

boys.    The  fit  is  passed  off. — To-morrow  the  Big; 
whatever  she  is,  let  her  drive." 

The  document  binding  owners  and  captain  was 
hardly  penciled,  Wallace  and  Tisdale  lingered  re- 
vising it  over  the  remains  of  breakfast,  when  a 
returning  shadow  fell  across  them  in  the  hut.  They 
glanced  up,  and  found  a  strange  man  smiling  at 
them — a  stalwart,  martial  figure  in  a  white  uni- 
form, tightly  buttoned.  The  stranger  was  God- 
bolt  without  his  beard,  transfigured,  his  cheeks 
very  pale,  and  across  cheek-bone,  nose,  and  brow  a 
red  scald  of  sunburn  like  a  highwayman's  vizard, 
or  a  birthmark.  His  face  greeted  them  for  the 
first  time,  clean  and  youthful.  A  quirk  of  melan- 
choly humor  caught  the  lips :  their  full  curve  might 
have  formed  the  Cupid's  bow,  but  that  experience, 
hardening  certain  fibres,  had  given  to  the  mouth,  as 
to  the  eyes,  a  trace  of  cruelty.  It  was  a  proud, 
sensitive,  contradictory  face.  Long  afterward, 
Tisdale  was  haunted  by  a  resemblance,  until  one 
day  he  saw  again  the  portrait  of  Graham  of  Clav- 
erhouse,  and  that  sad  glance  from  painted  canvas, 
bidding  a  harsh  world — "Look  out  for  yourself, 
and  I'll  look  out  for  the  Viscount  Dundee."  But 
now,  on  a  tropic  morning,  it  was  only  strange  to 
see  Godbolt's  new  features,  full  of  life  and  pas- 
sion, as  though  he  had  torn  off  a  disguise. 


CRASINGENS  93 

"All  or  nothing,  your  sea  rule  goes  for  beards," 
his  voice  rang  out,  like  a  bell.  "Hand  your  pen- 
cil over.  There:  signed,  sealed  and  delivered. 
My  first  command,  that  is,  and  reads  pretty.  To- 
morrow, then,  we  sail." 

They  sailed  on  the  next  morning.  Their  little 
crowded  boat  flew  up  and  down  through  outrag- 
eous waves,  gray  with  boiling  sand.  Her  sail, 
the  web-foot  canvas,  caught  the  wind  bellying  till 
every  batten  pointed  stiff.  Spray  drenched  the 
three  men,  darkened  their  red  turbans,  ran  down 
their  faces  like  sweat  and  tears.  They  crouched 
to  windward;  and  as  Godbolt  calmly  coaxed  the 
tiller,  they  saw  the  island  swing  into  view,  com- 
plete and  verdant,  then  sink  behind  a  gray  mound 
of  sandy  water.  Regret  was  their  chief  emotion: 
regret  at  seeing  the  black  tower  with  its  living  bat- 
tlements, the  bare  signal-mast  of  their  prison  rise, 
and  sink,  and  rise  again  diminished,  and  so  dwindle 
by  glimpse  after  glimpse  beyond  raging  waves. 

They  stood  far  off  toward  the  morning  sun,  so 
that  no  hungry  sea-fowl  might  confuse  or  baffle 
their  experiment.  When  the  last  gannet  squawked 
farewell,  and  wheeled  away  toward  the  island, 
Godbolt  gave  his  first  order  as  captain. 

"Mr.  Wallace,"  he  said,  formally,  "turn  loose 
your  pilot." 


94  THEFARCRY 

Wallace  held  on  his  knees  the  rude  wicker  bas- 
ket.   He  drew  the  linch-pin,  opened  the  door. 

"Oh,  the  little  devil!"  he  cried,  in  grief. 

The  carrier  dove  refused  its  liberty,  and  re- 
mained inside  the  bars,  resting  bewildered. 

uGive  him  time,"  Tisdale  advised.  "He's 
cowed." 

Several  waves,  the  glittering  blue  glass  of  open 
sea,  rolled  smoothly  under  them,  heaving  and 
yawning.  There  came  a  sudden  flutter  and  fright 
in  the  cage.  The  pigeon  tumbled  out  all  awry. 
Then,  with  the  whinny  and  whimper  of  wings  that 
no  other  bird  can  make,  he  flew  up,  cleared  the 
finny  leach  of  the  sail,  hung  high  in  sunlight,  white 
and  twinkling,  a  point  of  quivering  stability  like 
a  kingfisher  about  to  dive.  Next  moment,  this 
troubled  speck  seemed  to  mount  in  spirals,  as  if 
snatched  upward  by  a  gust.  All  at  once,  directed 
by  some  unerring  secret,  off  it  sped  on  a  bee-line, 
and  melted  into  the  glowing  snow-peak  of  a  cloud. 

"Go!"  cried  Godbolt,  and  through  his  mask  of 
sunburn  peered  at  the  compass.  "It's  a  go !  He's 
not  forgot  his  orders.  Straight  up  to  beat  Elijah, 
and  away.  He'll  tole  us  home.  Come  and  find 
out,  eh?     Follow  and  find  out.     East  by  south." 


PART  II 
PULO  PRINCESS 


CHAPTER    VIII 


VOICES 


For  three  days,  liberated  on  the  ocean,  cramped 
in  a  skiff,  they  held  the  pigeon's  doubtful  vanish- 
ing-point toward  morning,  east  by  south.  It  was 
like  following  a  dream,  confiding  their  bodies  and 
their  goods  to  any  airy  fable,  believing  in  a  dove 
that  already  had  flown  home  to  a  sacred  mountain. 
Light  airs  filled  the  sail,  passed,  and  let  it  crumple, 
with  battens  rattling  together  like  the  sticks  of  a 
broken  fan.  Time  and  again,  the  voyagers  called 
out,  and  pointed  across  an  ocean  quiet  as  the  sky, 
to  where  a  black  ridge  broke  the  horizon ;  but  al- 
ways this  form  of  their  desire  cheated  them,  de- 
tached itself  like  mirage,  and  trailing  above  a 
steel-bright  band  of  water,  dissolved — another 
cloud  of  black  rain  spilled  in  the  very  impulse  of 
rising. 

Hope  thus  rose  and  fell  to  waste.  But  on  the 
third  day,  in  a  glaring  noon,  suddenly  the  faintest 

97 


98  THE    FAR    CRY 

of  all  these  ridges  held  its  foundation,  sprouted 
with  outlines.  Far  ahead,  to  starboard,  it  perched 
like  a  bar  of  written  music — black  quarter-notes, 
upright  on  that  steel  rim  of  the  world. 

"No  shower,  there.  Not  much!"  The  men 
spoke  quietly,  but  nodding  a  conviction  solid  as  the 
land.    "Real  thing,  this  timel 

As  afternoon  drifted  by,  the  quarter-notes  mul- 
tiplied, grew  larger  and  more  distorted,  until  one 
by  one  changing  form,  they  stood  like  a  row  of 
beetles  impaled  on  long  pins.  The  late  afternoon 
glow  revealed  them,  at  last,  in  true  color  and  pro- 
portion, shaft  by  leather-brown  shaft,  bundle  on 
green  bundle  of  cocoanut  palm,  overtopping  many 
a  tufted  lance  of  areca.  The  bar  which  under- 
scored them  shone  out  a  living  green,  a  fresh- 
water green,  like  that  of  flags  in  a  marsh.  Below 
this,  a  smooth  patch  whiter  than  ice  broke  into  agi- 
tation, tumbling  higher  and  wilder  as  the  boat  ap- 
proached— a  ring  of  surf  hemming  the  island  all 
about,  leaping,  and  every  moment  clamoring 
louder. 

"Same  voice,"  Tisdale  observed  at  random, 
thoughtlessly.  "There's  your  old  man  again, 
Sainty,  got  here  before  us." 

Godbolt  3iiut  him  the  dark  look  that  means  a 
confidence  betrayed. 


VOICES  99 

"No  time  for  nonsense,"  he  grumbled.  "Down 
sail  and  out  oars,  Mr.  Wallace.  Here's  your  low 
island — Fraye's  Atoll,  for  what  I  know.  Stiff  and 
ugly  piece  o'  rowing."  And  when  some  land-gaz- 
ing delay  followed  his  order "Damn  it,  Mr. 

Tisdale,"  he  broke  out,  "d'ye  think  it's  a  basket 
picnic  on  them  reefs?  I  may  talk  moonshine  in 
my  sleep,  but  not  all  day,  thank  you.  Tide's  fav- 
orable. Ship  those  oars,  unless  you  want  to 
drown!" 

They  rowed,  slowly  at  first,  to  keep  their 
strength  for  a  crisis.  The  bright  green  island 
broke  in  two  before  them,  parted  right  and  left 
like  sliding  doors,  and  showed,  between  two  banks 
of  theatric  verdure,  the  pale  gleaming  mirror  of  a 
lagoon.  Thus  the  atoll  opened  its  gate,  toward 
which  the  waves  galloped  in  thunderous  charges, 
to  trample  and  destroy  one  another  before  the 
breach.  No  time  to  see  more:  the  boat  sprang 
into  the  thickest  of  the  froth,  was  whirled  ahead, 
flung  end-long,  sidewise,  churning  and  smothering 
the  wits  out  of  her  crew.  The  oars  bit  deep,  or 
winnowed  smoke,  until  a  rising  vortex  burst  for- 
ward and  belched  her  into  the  strait.  Both  green 
headlands  bared  their  fangs  of  coral,  gray  and 
dripping,  to  gnash  at  her.  She  flew  between  them 
up-hill,  on  the  steep  snow-path  of  a  wave. 


ioo  THEFARCRY 

"Steered !"  the  rowers  panted.  uWell  steered. 
Captain !" 

Godbolt  rubbed  salt  water  from  his  eyes,  and 
said  nothing. 

A  great  inland  calm  received  them,  even  while 
the  din  of  ocean  fell  astern.  They  had  fought 
their  way  through  a  battlepiece,  and  now  went 
skimming  an  eclogue  of  still  waters.  Evening  light 
poured  after  them,  to  gild  a  broad  circular  lake  in 
a  tropic  forest.  All  milk  and  fire  in  the  centre,  the 
lagoon  lay  shining  with  reflected  clouds,  like  an 
opal.  Round  it,  the  osier-green  of  the  shore 
floated  double ;  a  thin  white  arc  of  coral  parted  the 
true  foliage  from  its  watery  likeness — shadows  be- 
low, sun-bright  reality  above,  moving  only  where 
palms  held  up  clusters  of  sparkling  sword-blades. 
The  boat  lost  way,  and  drifted.  The  men  forgot 
to  row. 

"Nobody  here,"  said  one. 

"I  smell  queer  stuff  burning,"  declared  another. 

"See  the  pantalan?"  asked  the  third.  "A  land- 
ing built  there,  boys." 

Across  the  lagoon,  in  fact,  a  slender  jetty  stip- 
pled the  dark  inverted  image  of  the  leaves.  This 
was  the  only  mark  of  habitation — this,  and  a  faint 
breath  of  aromatic  smoke  diffused  from  the  embers 
of  cocoanut  husks,  hidden  among  the  trees. 


VOICES  ir 

Wallace  took  up  his  oars  again.  Godbolt 
turned  the  boat's  head  to  port,  and  let  her  glide 
close  under  the  curving  woodland,  in  a  green 
shade,  pleasant  and  cool. 

"Did  you  ever  see  the  like,"  Tisdale  was  say- 
ing, "for  stillness?  The  fish-pools  of  Hesh- 
bon  .  .  .  " 

He  stopped  and  stared.  From  the  bush  that 
leaned  above  their  heads  came  an  echo,  or  some- 
thing pat  as  an  echo,  but  more  musical,  and  utter- 
ing its  own  words. 

"Oh,  go  back  I"  it  moaned.    "Oh,  go  away  1" 

It  ended  in  a  wail.  The  boatmen  sat  looking 
foolishly  at  one  another,  then  up  into  the  foliage. 
Nothing  appeared  there,  nothing  stirred.  For  a 
moment  they  heard  only  the  surf  grumbling  behind 
the  leafy  palisade  and  a  rattle  of  palm-fans  like 
gravel  ground  by  rapid  wheels.  Wallace  me- 
chanically dipped  his  oar-blades. 

"Oh,  go  away!"  chanted  the  voice  among  the 
leaves.    "O  men,  go  away !" 

So  might  a  wood-nymph,  hiding,  plead  in  terror 
and  without  hope.  The  call,  prolonged  and  trem- 
ulous, passed  like  a  piece  of  melody  as  the  boat 
slid  onward.  But  now  another  voice  took  it  up, 
ahead;  then  another,  and  another,  till  all  that 
screen  and  canopy  of  shore  repeated  the  warning, 


^02  ;.T.^E    FAR    CRY 

from  various  places,  in  the  same  low  note,  not  of 
command,  but  of  helpless  lamentation. 

"O  men,  go  away!"  implored  the  sorrowful, 
scattered  choir,  like  children  who  had  no  faith  in 
what  they  sang.     "O  men,  go  away!" 

Godbolt  stood  on  a  thwart,  trying  to  peer 
through  some  cranny  in  the  boughs,  ferns,  and 
creepers.  These  grew  impenetrably  matted,  brist- 
ling from  their  basis  of  round  coral,  as  if  rooted 
among  heaps  of  skulls. 

"Ahoy  there !  Show  yourselves !"  he  bellowed. 
"We  don't  mean  you  any  harm  !" 

Not  a  word  followed.  He  had  ruined  some 
elfin  spell.  A  slight  rustling  passed  here  and  there 
through  the  bush,  and  something  like  a  sigh,  a 
whisper;  then  louder  rustling,  and  grunts,  and  a 
patter  of  departing  steps,  too  quick  and  small  for 
any  human  feet. 

"Row,  boys,  row!"  Godbolt  sat  down  and 
snatched  his  tiller.  "Row  hard!  Running  off, 
they  are.  Catch  'em!  There's  a  break  in  the  trees 
ahead." 

The  boat  rocked  with  the  violence  of  their 
strokes.  They  surged  along  the  white  beach,  and 
shot  past  the  mouth  of  a  tiny  clearing  where,  for  a 
boat's  length  or  so,  the  Golgotha  of  broken  coral 
stood  bare.     On  the  nearer  side,  bushes  parted. 


VOICES  103 

Three  black  pigs  galloped  awkwardly  across  the 
glade,  tumbling  and  squeaking  in  their  rush  for 
safety. 

"Pigs?"  cried  Wallace,  like  a  man  imposed  on. 
uBut  somebody  was  talking — English !  What's 
wrong  with  this  place,  anyway?" 

His  fellow-voyagers  could  only  shake  their 
heads,  and  look  ashore,  and  listen.  The  pigs  had 
vanished,  tearing  through  ironwoods.  Their  sud- 
den appearance — fat  bathos  scampering  out  from 
a  fairyland  of  disembodied  voices — left  a  curious 
shock,  not  altogether  comical.  It  was  like  having 
routed  the  swine  of  Circe. 

"Wrong?  Yes."  Godbolt  pulled  himself  to- 
gether. "Make  for  the  jetty,  and  we'll  find  what. 
Give  way!" 

They  no  longer  coasted  the  green  reflections  of 
the  bank,  but  steered  out  across  the  lagoon  silently 
in  a  blur  of  dancing  heat.  Whiter  than  cotton,  the 
beach  swelled  its  thin  line  to  a  broad,  horned  cres- 
cent, which  radiated  fiercely  the  glow  of  sunset, 
and  from  which  the  little  pier  straggled  into  the 
pool  on  black  wiry  shanks.  Beyond,  by  a  darken- 
ing stroke  like  that  of  snow-blindness,  the  whole 
eastern  semi-circle  of  the  atoll  was  painted  flat  in 
sombre  green. 

The  boat  grazed  the  wet  spilings  of  the  jetty, 


io4  THE    FAR    CRY 

at  last,  and  tied  up.  When  her  crew  had  climbed 
a  ladder,  and  stood  easing  numb  legs  on  the  pier- 
head, they  broke  out  laughing.  Each  man  carried 
an  axe.  They  had  seen  nothing  but  three  black 
pigs;  yet  here  they  brought  weapons  ashore. 

"Can't  chop  down  a  solitude,"  Godbolt  averred. 
"We  look  silly  enough  for  coots."  All  the  same, 
he  kept  his  bright  axe  ready.     "What's  here?" 

Nailed  to  a  post,  a  white  bulletin  board  con- 
fronted them.     Neat  block  letters  covered  it. 

"VISITORS  WILL  PLEASE  TAKE 
NOTICE 

ist.  That  no  natives  must  be  allowed  on 
shipboard,  without  written  permission  signed 
by  the  Proprietor. 

2nd.  That  fish  caught  in  the  lagoon  should 
not  be  eaten  unadvisedly.  Certain  varieties 
are  poisonous. 

3rd.  That  water  will  be  furnished  at  9s. 
6d.  per  ton,  to  cover  coolie  hire. 

Thomas  Masterman  Fraye." 

"Hmm !"  said  Godbolt.  "There's  a  thoughtful 
man.  Did  I  earn  my  pay?  It's  Fraye's  Atoll,  fast 
enough." 


VOICES  105 

They  turned  their  backs  on  the  sunset,  and 
began  marching  up  the  jetty.  Now,  raised  by  this 
light  platform  above  the  glaring  beach,  they  could 
look  deep  into  the  colonnade  of  palms,  and  see, 
mottled  with  shadows  brown  and  green,  a  thatched 
house  hidden  like  a  long  hay-stack  in  a  grove. 
Huts  peeped  from  ambush  in  the  distance;  a  row 
of  boats  lay  side  by  side  among  the  tawny,  slant- 
ing trunks ;  but  nothing  moved,  the  sunset  poured 
under  the  trees  and  touched  no  living  figure. 

"Queer,"  said  Tisdale.  "Queer.  It  troubles 
me,  all  of  it."  And  halting  where  their  scaffold 
joined  the  land,  he  pointed  at  the  sand  below. 
"What  do  you  make  out  of  those,  now?" 

Powdered  coral  swept  away  on  either  hand, 
forming  a  high  concave  bank,  steep  as  the  turn  of 
a  race-course.  Along  it  were  scattered  blunt  little 
ends  of  refuse,  like  mushrooms  thrown  up  by  the 
tide. 

"Champagne  corks?"  cried  Wallace,  bending 
over  the  edge  of  the  jetty.     "Champagne  corks !" 

Godbolt  nodded  gloomily. 

"That  ain't  Britannia's  tea-pot,  even,"  he  de- 
clared. "A  yacht  club  must  'a'  been  cruising  here- 
about. Corks:  by  the  dozen.  Far  worse  than 
pigs.     Drunkards,  I  don't  like  'em." 

Greatly  puzzled  by  the  sight  of  this  bacchanal- 


io6  THEFARCRY 

ian  flotsam,  the  comrades  went  forward,  crossed 
the  ramp  of  the  pier,  and  set  foot  on  island  soil. 
Winding  between  borders  of  gilt-spattered  crotons, 
a  trim  brown  path  led  them  toward  the  house. 
Throughout  this  many-masted  grove  the  western 
sky  and  the  burning  lagoon  lavished  their  bright- 
ness, only  to  be  mixed  with  twilight,  absorbed  in 
tranquil  tones  of  brown  and  green.  An  English 
flower-garden  shone  softly  variegated  in  the  gen- 
eral dusk,  and  spiced  the  salt  air  with  a  breath  of 
cloves.  The  men  themselves  (and  they  alone) 
brought  movement  and  discord  here.  Barefoot, 
black  with  sunburn,  clothed  in  filthy  linen,  with 
savage  red  turbans  on  their  heads,  they  came 
shouldering  their  axes  like  pirates. 

"Where  are  the  people?"  muttered  Wallace. 
He  could  neither  forget  nor  explain  that  litter  of 
wine  corks  on  the  beach.  "Are  they  all  sleeping 
it  off?" 

Tisdale  reviewed  the  garden. 

"They're  not  that  kind,"  he  answered,  "who- 
ever they  are.  This  path  was  swept  to-day.  And 
smell  the  pink  stocks !" 

"Clove  gilly-flowers,"  Godbolt  agreed,  halting 
and  sniffing.  "Mother  used  to  plant  'em,  always." 
He  strayed  from  the  path,  plucked  a  stalk  of 
crowded  blossoms,  and  stood  thoughtfully  inhal- 


VOICES  107 

ing  the  well  remembered  sweetness.  "No :  gilly- 
flowers, they  don't  go  with  champagne." 

Holding  the  colored  tuft  in  his  hand,  he  moved 
on.  Between  great  banks  of  roses  and  of  honey- 
suckle, the  garden  path  went  straight  to  the  ve- 
randa of  the  house,  which  stood  with  open  door 
and  windows  facing  the  grove  and  the  sunset.  It 
was  a  bamboo  structure,  rambling,  rudely  plaited, 
overhung  with  thatch,  yet  neat  as  the  whole  envir- 
onment and  shining  like  dull  gold.  Nobody  moved 
inside  it,  but  a  small  red  morocco  book  lay  on  the 
steps,  with  a  handkerchief  marking  a  reader's 
place  among  the  pages. 

"Call  to  'em,"  Godbolt  whispered,  clamping 
Tisdale's  arm  in  iron  fingers,  and  pushing  him  for- 
ward. "There's  a  woman  round  the  place.  Speak 
to  'em,  Arthur.  You're  the  youngest.  Women 
don't  ever  like  me." 

Tisdale  laughed,  but  without  confidence.  This 
desert  peace  weighed  down  the  spirit.  His  blue 
eyes  widened  and  grew  blank.  He,  the  ready 
speaker  of  the  company,  could  find  no  form  of 
words. 

"Oh,  I  say,"  he  began.    "Is  anybody  at  home?" 

The  dark  windows  of  the  house  remained  star- 
ing, vacant,  over  their  heads.  But  now,  while  they 
listened  eagerly,  they  heard  a  long,  difficult  sigh,  as 
of  a  man  drawing  his  breath  in  pain. 


108  THEFARCRY 

Tisdale  again  called. 

This  was  an  afternoon  of  voices.  No  one  came 
to  door  or  window,  but  from  within  the  house  an- 
other voice,  clear,  and  full  of  rising  courage,  re- 
plied. 

"One  moment,"  it  said.  "Do  you  come  from 
Mr.  Mace?  Sit  down  and  wait,  please.  I'll  be 
out  to  you." 

Godbolt  started  as  if  to  run. 

"There!  That's  Kate!"  he  whispered.  "Bet 
you !    Wish  we  were  out  o'  this  1" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THOMAS    MASTERMAN    FRAYE 

They  stole  off  to  hide  their  axes  under  the 
croton  border  of  the  path;  for  somehow,  having 
heard  this  latest  voice,  they  felt  no  desire  to  be 
caught  there  armed,  like  a  gang  of  free-booters. 

Glass  rang,  a  spoon  jingled,  inside  the  room.  A 
murmur  of  consultation  followed.  Then  came  a 
quick,  light  tread,  a  rustle  of  skirts;  and  in  the 
doorway,  all  at  once  but  very  calmly,  a  girl  ap- 
peared— a  girl  not  above  middle  stature,  yet  gain- 
ing the  advantage  of  height  as  she  looked  down 
at  them  with,  cool  brown  eyes ;  a  girl  dressed  in 
dark  blue,  her  fair  hair  shining  against  the  deep 
background  of  the  room,  and  her  young  arms 
bared  to  the  elbow.  Her  pose,  her  look,  were  full 
of  scorn. 

uMr.  Mace  chose  a  poor  time,"  she  began,  quiet 
and  straightforward,  "for  sending  you." 

As  though  to  offer  the  narrowest  possible  mark, 
109 


no  THE    FAR    CRY 

all  three  men  turned  shoulder  foremost,  and 
glanced  up  cringing,  like  so  many  copies  of  Bob 
Acres  under  fire. 

"A  poor  time,"  she  repeated.  "Not  that  Mr. 
Mace  would  care;  but  my  grandfather  has  been 
very  ill  indeed." 

Her  throat,  like  her  arms,  was  bare.  A  pulse 
throbbed  in  it.  She  could  not  be  so  cool,  then,  as 
her  eyes  would  have  these  cowards  to  imagine. 

"Why,  really  .  .  .  We  are  sorry."  Tisdale, 
the  spokesman,  took  heart.  "There  must  be  a 
mistake.  We  never  heard  of  Mr.  Mace  before, 
upon  my  word." 

The  girl,  like  one  preoccupied,  whose  courage 
points  to  higher  matters,  had  shown  no  surprise 
at  seeing  them,  all  grimy  and  barbaric  as  they 
stood.  Men  who  tied  their  heads  in  scarlet  rags, 
who  wore  silver  buttons  in  the  dirtiest  of  jackets, 
might  have  been  her  daily  visitors — inconvenient, 
base,  but  not.  dangerous.  Now,  when  Tisdale 
spoke,  a  light. crossed  her  face,  the  light  of  unmis- 
takable surprise  and  relief. 

"Mace  didn't  order  you?"  She  gave  a  start. 
Her  brown  eyes  kindled,  and  saw  them  all  anew. 
"Indeed,  by  your  faces  .  .  .  No!  You  haven't 
come  to  threaten  a  woman  and  a  sick  main — an  old 
man  who  is  very  ill  ?    You  haven't ;  have  you  ?" 


THOMAS    FRAYE  in 

It  was  strange,  pathetic,  to  see  her  pride  turn- 
ing into  supplication,  and  hear  her  voice  change 
and  falter.  She  had  stood  above  them  as  on  a 
stage,  rehearsing  a  defiant  part,  which  now  she 
broke  off  short,  to  speak  in  her  own  character. 

Tisdale  bowed. 

"We  are  ship-wrecked,"  he  said,  briefly. 
"We've  just  landed.  It's  a  piece  of  our  Tuck  to 
bring  you  more  trouble  at  such  a  time.  Can  we 
be  of  help?"  Looking  about,  in  his  emHarrass- 
ment,  as  though  for  some  act  of  homage  to  per- 
form, Tisdale  spied  at  her  feet  the  little  red  vol- 
ume with  the  handkerchief.  He  picked  it  up.  The 
gilt  letters  of  the  title  caught  his  eye.  "Ah,  Le 
Foyer  Breton"  and  he  smiled  as  he  offered  her 
the  volume.  Childhood — fairy  tales — the  sound 
of  his  mother's  voice  reading  aloud  in  twilight: 
old  secret  memories  thronged  and  vanished.  "My 
mother,"  said  he,  on  the  impulse,  "was  of  that 
country  .  .  .  France.  That  is  twice,"  he  added, 
glancing  back  to  Godbolt,  who  overshadowed 
them  from  a  humble  post  in  the  rear,  with  eyes 
downcast,  and  the  gilly-flowers  in  his  hand — "that 
is  twice  we  have  been  reminded,  already." 

The  girl,  though  puzzled  by  his  words,  seemed 
to  gather  something  of  their  spirit,  and  to  cast  off 
her  own  misgivings. 


ii2  THE    FAR    CRY 

"Wait,  please,  a  moment."  She  smiled  at  the 
bedraggled  wanderers,  and  turning,  disappeared 
within  the  house.  They  heard  her  speaking  to 
somebody,  but  could  catch  none  of  her  words  ex- 
cept— "I  believe  them" — and  again — "Not  the 
slightest  doubt." 

The  men,  waiting  below  the  veranda,  ex- 
changed a  glance  and  a  nod. 

"Hear  that  ?"  said  Godbolt.  He  had  held  aloof 
like  a  stupid  boy  forbidden  to  join  a  game;  but 
now  he  drew  near,  took  his  friends  by  the  shoul- 
ders, and  whispered  earnestly.  His  big,  black  eyes 
glowed  with  admiration;  and  across  them,  al- 
though sea  wind  and  tropic  sun  had  burnt  his 
cheeks,  the  red  scald  reappeared  for  an  instant, 
by  some  effect  of  pallor.  "Did  you  hear?  She 
believed  us !  That's  the  kind  she  is.  You  spoke 
well,  Arthur,  you  spoke  up  like  a  master  hand!" 

The  sun  went  down.  Through  the  darkening 
grove  a  strong  blue  radiance  poured  from  the 
lagoon,  more  like  the  promise  of  dawn  than  the 
failure  of  another  evening.  By  this  half  light, 
they  saw  the  girl's  head  shine  in  the  doorway.  She 
beckoned  them.  They  untied  the  bandages  from 
their  heads,  and  went  upstairs. 

The  room  they  entered  was  dark  and  cool,  filled 
with  a  fresh  pungency  of  camphor-wood. 


THOMAS    FRAYE  113 

uGood  evening,  gentlemen."  A  man's  voice 
greeted  them  from  the  farthest  corner.  It  was  a 
pleasant  voice,  like  the  girl's,  but  somewhat  iron- 
ical.    "Forgive  my  not  rising,  won't  you?" 

In  a  long  rattan  chair,  beside  one  of  the  oppo- 
site windows,  lay  a  figure  wrapped  in  gray — a  lit- 
tle white-haired  man,  perfectly  still,  though  at  first 
glance  his  body  seemed  to  move  because  of  a  rest- 
less shadow  passing  over  him  from  head  to  feet, 
from  feet  to  head  again.  This  shadow  came  and 
went  as  a  huge,  brown  man-servant,  who  stood 
half  hidden  by  the  head  of  the  chair,  kept  sway- 
ing back  and  forth  a  two-handed  punkah,  the  stalk 
and  leaf  of  a  palm. 

The  little  white-haired  man  lay  watching  his 
three  visitors;  while  they,  pausing  on  the 
threshold,  bowed  to  him. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  he,  in  the  same  cheery  but 
satirical  tone,  "I  am  glad  you  appear  so  able- 
bodied,  my  friends.  If  you  came  to  remove  me, 
you  may  have  to  do  so  feet  foremost.  Not  that 
I'm  obstinate,  gentlemen,  only  sick.  Old  age,  old 
age !"  he  chirped.    Then  suddenly  sharpening  his 

white  eyebrows  at  them  in  the  dusk "Well?" 

he  demanded  bitterly,  "does  Mr.  Mace  provide  a 
stretcher?" 

He  put  all  his  force  into  the  question.     The 


ii4  THE    FAR    CRY 

sound  of  his  breathing  followed,  dry  and  hard  and 
short.  The  dark  giant  who  swung  the  fan,  gripped 
the  butt  of  it  between  his  toes,  and  rolled  the 
whites  of  his  eyes,  placidly  wondering  now  at  his 
master,  now  at  the  strangers  in  the  door. 

"Oh,  Grandfather!"  cried  the  girl.  She  had 
stood  midway,  intent  and  motionless,  at  the  cor- 
ner of  a  table.  Nightfall  obscured  her  face,  but 
her  voice  rang  out  reproachfully.  "I  told  you  the 
men  were  honest." 

"Be  quiet,  Katherine,"  retorted  the  old  man, 
sharply  but  not  unkindly.  "Let  the  men  speak  for 
themselves,  if  they  can.  Well?"  He  repeated 
his  challenge.  "Why  delay?  Proceed,  gentlemen. 
We're  quite  ready,  quite  helpless,  as  you  see,  and 
not  in  the  least  afraid  of  you." 

Daylight  had  forsaken  the  place.  In  the  gloom, 
Godbolt  stepped  forward  so  angrily  that  the  slave 
of  the  fan  forgot  his  duty,  and  shrank  back. 

"We  never  tried  to  scare  you,"  he  declared,  with 
indignation.  "We're  shipwrecked,  sir,  and  that's 
a  fact:  whether  you  believe  us  or  not.  She  did." 
He  swung  on  his  heel.  "Good  night,  and  beg 
pardon.  Let's  go  out,  boys.  We've  slept  in  the 
bush  before  now." 

The  white  head  roused  from  the  chair. 

"Well   delivered,   sir.     Well  delivered — deep 


THOMAS    FRAYE  115 

from  the  chest.'*  The  master  of  the  house  peered, 
with  a  different  and  a  keener  motive,  from  beneath 
the  swaying  punkah.  "Katherine,  take  note:  you 
judge  by  faces.  Quite  wrong.  As  a  man  speak- 
eth,  so  is  he.  Nulla  fides  fronti,  my  dear.  All  the 
same,  friends,  come,  let  me  see  your  faces.  You 
find  us  at  a  very  uneasy  hour.  Katherine,  go  tell 
Consolacion  to  fetch  a  lamp.  I  doubt  if  the  wench 
has  filled  one." 

His  grand-daughter  obeyed,  silently.  She 
passed  into  a  dark  veranda  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  clapped  her  hands,  and  remained  there,  as 
though  listening.  It  was  now  too  dark  for  out- 
lines ;  but  the  three  men,  as  they  waited  to  undergo 
their  singular  ordeal  of  lamp-light,  thought  they 
saw  the  girl  suddenly  bend  her  head,  clasp  her 
arms  on  her  breast,  and  wring  them  with  passion. 
Dim  guess-work,  the  adumbration  of  movement,  it 
spoke  out  like  a  cry  of  gratitude.  She  raised  her 
head,  clapped  her  hands  again,  calling: 

"Consolacion?" 

For  answer,  a  nimbus  came  toward  them 
through  the  grove  behind  the  house — the  soft, 
circular  glow  of  a  lamp,  indoor  comfort  straying 
among  palm  trunks.  A  little  brown  woman,  whose 
bare  feet  stole  in  and  out  under  a  yellow  skirt, 
carried  the  lamp  slowly  up  the  steps,  and  dropping 


n6  THE    FAR    CRY 

an  odd  curtesy  to  her  mistress,  followed  her  into 
the  room. 

"Trimmed  and  burning,  after  all,"  the  old  man 
chuckled.     UA  wise  virgin  to-night,  my  child." 

Consolacion,  a  plump  mestiza,  placed  her  lamp 
on  the  table,  and  knelt  before  his  rattan  chair. 

"We  love  you,  Master,"  she  moaned. 

She  rose  and  stole  to  the  door,  a  sleek-headed 
mouse  of  a  woman,  in  yellow  and  white  gauze. 
Her  voice  was  like  those  plaintive  dryad  voices 
among  the  trees,  where  the  black  swine  had  gal- 
loped. 

"Come,"  said  the  master,  impatiently.  "Come, 
gentlemen,  step  up  and  show  your  faces."  He 
struggled,  and  bent  forward  in  his  chair.  "Here  is 
my  face.    Exhibit  yours." 

Wallace,  Godbolt,  and  Tisdale  ranged  them- 
selves by  his  chair,  and  let  the  lamplight  speak. 
They  saw  below  them  a  figure  no  larger  than  a 
boy's,  wrapped  in  a  gray  dressing-gown;  the  face 
ruddy,  round,  jocose,  betraying  its  years  only  by 
the  tolerance  that  twinkled  in  brown  eyes,  and  by 
the  hair  and  moustache  whiter  than  milk. 

"What  are  your  names?"  he  snapped. 

They  told  him.  The  girl,  the  mestiza  at  the 
door,  and  the  swart  giant  with  his  punkah,  stood 
listening  while  they  spoke. 


THOMAS    FRAYE  117 

"Mine  is  Fraye.  Thomas  Masterman  Fraye. 
And  there's  my  grand-daughter  Katherine,"  said 
the  sick  man.  "Mr.  Wallace,  you  look  young  and 
thoughtful.  Mr.  Tisdale — ah,  my  boy,  you  might 
come  to  a  bad  end,  if  you  had  not  been  well 
brought  up.  And  Mr.  Godbolt?  Well,  Captain, 
there  is  room  in  your  lungs,  I  see,  for  that  cathe- 
dral chime  of  yours !  You  are — somewhat — 
older  ?" 

He  reached  past  them,  signaling  toward  the 
doorway. 

"Consolacion?  Dinner?  Run,  child,  and  set 
the  table.  In  the  grove,  to-night.  Places  for 
four.  No,  Katherine,  not  I.  Old  Pantaloon  will 
sup  his  gruel  alone,  where  he  can  make  all  the 
noise  he  likes  in  breathing.     Four  places,  child." 

The  girl  had  moved  between  his  chair  and  the 
window.  The  breath  from  the  punkah  set  her 
bright  hair  fluttering  like  a  lambency  about  her 
head.  For  a  moment  she  stood  looking — with 
parted  lips  and  eyes  that  sparkled — now  down  at 
her  grandfather,  now  up  and  across  his  body  at 
the  young  strangers. 

"You  do  believe  them,"  she  said.  "I  knew  you 
would!"  And  then,  laughing  happily,  "Gentle- 
men, if  you  knew  how  much  you  have  done  for 
us !     It  is  wonderful,  your  coming  here !" 


n8  THE    FAR    CRY 

She  made  a  quick  and  speaking  gesture,  like 
one  who  throws  off  a  burden. 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!"  Mr.  Fraye  grimaced  at  her, 
working  his  white  brows  and  pouting  his  white 
moustache.  "Not  so  fast,  young  lady,  not  so  fast. 
Men  are  not  shipwrecked  to  please  you,  alto- 
gether.   More  than  that "    His  ruddy,  round 

face  grew  composed,  even  serious;  once  again  his 
eyes  were  the  only  part  of  him  to  move,  as  he 
raised  and  fixed  them  on  the  three  friends.  "The 
question  has  now  become,  not  of  our  believing  you, 
but  your  believing  us.  That's  not  so  easy  to  ar- 
range, offhand." 

Tisdale  made  a  deprecatory  sign. 

"Let  us  return  the  compliment,  sir." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  slightly,  and  al- 
lowed the  great  palm  leaf  to  sway  back  and  forth, 
back  and  forth,  before  he  answered. 

"No.  Conduct,  I  find,  grows  more  difficult  as 
a  man  grows  older."  He  smiled  up  at  them,  slyly. 
"Our  case — you  must  learn  it  for  yourselves,  and 
judge.  No  first  impressions,  please.  On  my  part, 
I  sha'u't  bear  witness  against  my  neighbor,  false 
or  true.  Yes,  my  dear,"  he  said,  as  the  girl  started 
angrily.  "Yes,  my  dear,  it's  a  neighborhood  mat- 
ter. You  found  us  afraid,  though  on  that  point, 
just  now,  I  lied  to  you  in  self-defense;  you  found 


THOMAS    FRAYE  119 

us  backward  in  welcome,  and  suspicious ;  don't  ask 
me  to  put  all  our  worst  feet  forward.  We  sha'n't 
try  to  prejudice  you.    Wait,  and  see,  and  choose." 

"Grandfather,"  began  the  girl,  reproachfully. 

He  stopped  her  with  a  hard  glance. 

"No,  I'm  not  silly,  Katherine,"  he  declared. 
"I'm  only  doing  right." 

His  body  writhed  somewhat  under  the  gray 
robe.  He  was  evidently  in  pain;  but  as  he  lay 
considering,  the  boyish  look  of  mischief  did  not 
leave  his  eyes.  He  began  to  gasp  with  open 
mouth,  more  and  more  audibly. 

"Rust  in  the  bellows,"  he  panted.  "Good 
leather  yet,  though."  And  then,  snatching  an  in- 
terval of  ease "Wait  and  see,  my  boys.    You 

know  the  old  Jacobite  lines? 

<{  lWho  that  Pretender  is,  and  who  that  King, 
God  bless  us  all,  is  quite  another  thing!' 

There's  your  situation,  to  a  hair.  But  wait  and 
choose  for  yourselves." 

Katherine  stooped,  and  spoke  a  few  words  in 
his  ear. 

"Nothing  will !"  he  cried  petulantly.  "Nothing 
will  happen  to-night.     I've  told  you  so  all  day." 

He  forced  out  the  last  words.     To  breathe  be- 


120  THE    FAR    CRY 

came  a  slow  struggle,  a  long  distress.  Closing  his 
eyes,  he  sat  up  and  strained  for  air. 

"You  are  hungry,"  said  Miss  Fraye  to  the  men, 
quickly,  pointing  toward  the  back  veranda.  "I'll 
join  you  out  there." 

A  white  cloth  shone  beneath  twinkling  candles, 
close  by  in  the  grove.  Out  at  the  rear  door  and 
toward  these  the  young  men  filed.  As  they  went 
down,  they  heard  the  loud  sighs  of  their  host. 
"Aaah,  ha  ha  ha !"  he  repeated  slowly,  like  a  deaf 
man  who  read  the  words  aloud  and  had  never 
heard  of  merriment.    "Aaah,  ha  ha  ha  !" 

"Plucky  little  devil,  that,"  whispered  Godbolt. 
"Could  see  him  staving  the  fit  off." 

The  round,  white  table,  set  with  silver  and 
lighted  by  four  candle-lamps,  stood  there,  brightly 
familiar,  on  the  frontier  of  a  great  darkness.  All 
three  men,  regarding  it  while  they  waited,  felt 
this  contrast  with  peculiar  force.  The  black  vault, 
beyond  the  candles,  might  have  been  thronged  with 
watchers. 

Tisdale  gave  his  friends  a  quizzical  glance. 

"  'Thou  preparest  a  table  before  me,'  "  he 
quoted,  lightly,  "  'in  the  presence  of  mine  enemies.' 
Odd  effect,  eh?" 

They  both  smiled  at  him,  nodding,  as  if  he  had 
put  their  feeling  into  words. 


THOMAS    FRAYE  121 

"Enemies?  Well,"  growled  Godbolt,  "they'll 
see  a  hearty  appetite  for  once.  What's  this  Pre- 
tender business,  though?  Remember  the  writ- 
ing on  the  pigeon's  leg?  What's  all  the  scare 
about,  inside  there?"  He  jerked  his  thumb  back 
toward  the  lighted  windows.  "What's  the  Pre- 
tender?   And  who's  Mr.  Mace?" 

They  shook  their  heads,  not  expecting  an  an- 
swer. 


CHAPTER    X 

THE   TABLE    IN   THE    GROVE 

"Ah?    Yes— it's  I." 

The  words  were  spoken  casually,  near  at  hand 
— so  near  that  the  three  men  started.  Nobody 
had  joined  their  group ;  and  at  first,  as  they  turned 
to  stare  hither  and  yon  through  the  darkness,  they 
saw  nobody.  For  a  moment  their  eyes  took  coun- 
sel together.  They  were  puzzled.  The  cry  of 
the  surf,  hoarse  and  mournful,  summoned  their 
hearing  through  the  grove,  across  the  island,  off 
to  sea  beyond  the  uttermost  reefs.  Palm  tops  high 
overhead  set  up  a  dry  clashing,  which  subsided 
into  silken  rustles.  Overhead,  but  much  lower, 
sounded  a  muffled  "Rou-cou-tou-cou"  of  doves  in 
some  hidden  cote.  These  voices  of  the  night  ex- 
plained themselves;  not  so  the  human  voice. 

"You  called  my  name?"  It  spoke  again,  slow 
and  cool.  "I  thought  you  did,  in  passing.  If  not, 
I  beg  pardon." 

122 


TABLE    IN    THE    GROVE     123 

An  elderly  voice,  gentle,  with  a  slight  tremor, 
it  might  have  come  across  the  table.  Peering  in 
that  direction,  the  men  saw  above  the  mild  radi- 
ance of  silver,  white  linen,  and  candle-flame,  a  face 
watching  them  with  shadowy  benevolence.  A  face, 
and  no  more,  told  them  where  the  speaker  stood 
— a  long,  narrow,  wrinkled  face  with  thin  fea- 
tures, dark,  vague  eyes,  and  lofty  but  narrow  fore- 
head. Bareheaded,  clothed  in  black,  the  stranger 
melted  bodiless  into  the  gloom,  and  left  only  this 
visage  to  float  and  waver  beyond  the  wavering 
candles.  It  was  long  and  sleepy  and  kind,  like 
the  face  of  an  old  horse. 

Tisdale  was  the  first  to  answer. 

"Oh!"  said  he.     "Mr.  Mace?" 

The  visitor  was  seen  to  bow,  gravely. 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  and  after  a  thought- 
ful pause "I  chanced  to  be  going  by."    There 

fell  a  second  pause.  "But  I  see  you  were  not  call- 
ing to  me,  gentlemen."  The  face  moved  away, 
slowly  fading  toward  the  right;  then  hung  station- 
ary. "I  trust,"  continued  the  gentle  voice,  "I  sin- 
cerely hope  that  Mr.  Fraye  is  better  this  even- 
ing?" 

The  question  had  an  odd  sound,  tentative,  re- 
luctant, as  if  it  came  with  effort. 

"Better?"  echoed  Tisdale.     "That  I  can't  say, 


i24  THE    FAR    CRY 

sir.  Mr.  Fraye  seems  ill.  We're  strangers  here. 
We  came  only  now,  by  accident,  in  a  boat." 

The  face,  dim  almost  to  vanishing,  suddenly 
approached  the  light  again,  grew  somewhat 
clearer. 

"By  accident?  Ah!  Strangers."  Mr.  Mace 
had  lost  his  equine  look.  His  dark  eyes  were  no 
longer  vague,  but  wide  awake.  In  his  pale  cheeks 
the  wrinkles  moved  and  worked,  as  though  he  were 
chewing  the  cud  of  some  new  idea.  "I'm  very 
much  afraid,  young  men,"  he  observed  ruefully, 
"that  you  came  at  a  bad  time." 

A  thin,  white  hand  stole  up  and  stroked  his 
chin,  after  this  rebuke. 

"It's  hardly  our  fault,"  Wallace  grumbled. 
"Shipwrecked  men  can't  choose  their  times  for 
landing." 

"No!  No!  Indeed  they  can't!"  agreed  the 
other,  quickly.  His  hand  fluttered  aloft;  anima- 
tion seized  his  voice;  he  seemed  to  have  conquered 
a  fit  of  shyness.  "No,  indeed.  Quite  right.  I  was 
thinking  of  poor  Fraye,  only.  Poor  Fraye !  He's 
so  hospitable,  the  dear  old  chap — feudal  gener- 
osity, you  know — that  he'd  take  you  in  at  any  sac- 
rifice." 

The  white  hand  sank  to  rest  on  his  chin.  This 
time,  it  was  Godbolt  who  took  offense. 


TABLE    IN    THE    GROVE     125 

"Sacrifice?"  cried  the  sailor.  "A  bad  time? 
By  the  Humphrey  Hell-cat,  there  it  goes  again! 
Look  here:  we  don't  bother  sick  men,  do  we, 
boys  ?"  He  turned  wearily  on  his  friends.  "Come, 
it's  the  same  thing  I  said  before :  we'll  go  bunk  in 
the  bush.  There's  more  on  foot  than  what  we 
understand." 

Again  the  countenance  above  the  candles  took 
a  different  aspect.  Mr.  Mace  was  smiling, 
frankly,  but  watching  his  own  smile,  as  it  were, 
down  the  length  of  his  nose. 

"There,  now !"  he  chuckled.  "You  mistake  me. 
I'm  a  blundering  old  fellow;  what  I'm  trying  to 
say,  is  this."  The  dark  eyes  looked  up,  full  of 
amusement.  "Under  the  circumstances,  won't  you 
come  stay  at  my  house?  Bachelor  quarters!"  he 
laughed.  "Bachelor  quarters :  but  I  can  make  you 
snug,  and  nobody  there  will  count  your  stengahs 
when  you're  dry!  Company's  rare  with  me:  I'd 
like  dearly  to  have  you?" 

The  three  companions  glanced  at  one  another, 
awkwardly,  in  consultation. 

"I  see  how  it  is,"  the  speaker  added,  with 
pathos.  "You'd  find  it  dull,  no  doubt.  But  while 
poor  Fraye's  down  sick  .  .  .  Come  to-morrow," 
he  begged,  his  thin  face  warmed  and  shining. 
"Come  by  daylight  and  view  the  premises.    If  you 


126  THE    FAR    CRY  -% 

like  them,  they  are  yours — the  freedom  of  the 
place.  We  want  the  islands  to  keep  a  good  name 
for  hospitality.     Come  and  see  me,  at  any  rate!" 

Tisdale,  reading  the  looks  of  either  shipmate, 
spoke  for  them. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Mace,"  he  answered.  "We'll 
come  to  see  you." 

"Good.  I'm  delighted."  Wrinkling  with  satis- 
faction, the  long  face  once  more  receded  in  dark- 
ness. It  returned  for  a  moment,  smiling  cannily. 
"Never  tell  Fraye  that  I  was  bidding  for  you, 
though!  Dear  old  Tom! — he'd  be  furious! 
Don't  forget:  I  expect  you  to-morrow  morning. 
You'll  find  it  the  best  arrangement.  I'll  send  a 
boat,  of  course." 

He  was  gone.  They  heard  a  slight  crunching 
of  sand,  as  he  went  softly  away  toward  the  right. 
Aloft,  the  palms  crackled  and  fell  silent;  the  surf 
resounded  round  the  distant  confines  of  the  night; 
the  candles  flickered  or  burned  steady  on  the  table, 
and  lighted  three  musing  figures  of  men. 

"Something's  up,"  said  Wallace. 

"Let  it  wait:  I'm  hungry,"  Tisdale  scoffed. 
"What's  fretting  you  so  hard,  Sainty?" 

Godbolt  stared  at  the  candles  without  answer- 
ing, for  a  while. 

"I  was  thinking."     He  shook  himself,  at  last. 


TABLE    IN    THE    GROVE     127 

uThere  was  less  trouble  on  the  old  island,  wasn't 
there?  We'll  never  see  them  again,  those  days. 
But  here  we  are.     And  that's  best." 

They  were  too  weary,  too  bewildered,  and  too 
hungry,  for  any  further  comment.  The  grove,  the 
bright  dinner-table,  evening,  and  the  prospect  of 
sleep :  these  were  all  pieces  in  a  fantasy,  the  name 
of  which  was  drowsiness. 

Half  dozing,  they  heard  behind  them  the  brush 
of  skirts.  Miss  Fraye  came  toward  them  and  to- 
ward the  light.  She  was  bringing  a  decanter  on  a 
silver  tray. 

"My  grandfather  is  better,"  she  called  out  as 
she  came.    "He'll  join  us  before  long." 

She  put  down  the  decanter — a  shining  globe  of 
pale  sherry — in  the  midst  of  the  candle-sticks; 
lifted  a  silver  bell,  and  set  it  tinkling;  then,  with  a 
smile  and  a  little  wave  of  the  hands,  made  her 
guests  welcome  at  table. 

They  were  hardly  seated,  when  from  nowhere, 
like  a  familiar  spirit,  appeared  a  small,  rotund 
Chinaman  in  white  livery  faced  with  blue.  Still 
as  a  ball  of  thistledown,  he  passed  round  the  table 
and  out  of  sight  again,  leaving  at  this  point  in  his 
orbit  four  cups  of  bouillon,  and  an  impression  that 
with  three  blinks  from  a  slanting  eye,  he  had  stud- 
ied the  full  history  of  three  strangers. 


128  THE    FAR    CRY 

The  men  drained  their  cups  without  speaking, 
but  looked  at  one  another  and  sighed — a  three- 
fold, heartfelt  sigh.  At  the  sound  of  it,  they 
laughed,  and  found  their  hostess  laughing  with 
them.  Good  food  had  worked  a  magic :  hardship, 
loneliness,  careworn  voyages  were  over;  cramped 
bodies,  tired  minds  belonged  to  the  unreal  world 
of  fatigue.  Here  they  sat  already  warmed  and 
fed,  awake  and  laughing.  The  girl  understood; 
or  so  her  brown  eyes  told  them,  shining  in  the 
candlelight. 

Again,  while  they  laughed,  the  Chinaman  glided 
through  his  comet  path,  leaving  fish  as  by  accident, 
with  a  faint,  plump  smile  of  condescension.  When 
he  had  vanished,  there  came  from  the  house  a  quiet 
scuffle  of  bare  feet,  and  four  dark  men-servants 
in  the  white  and  blue  livery  set  down  a  burden  at 
the  edge  of  the  light — Mr.  Fraye's  long  chair,  and 
Mr.  Fraye  himself,  lying  still  under  his  robe  as  if 
wrapped  in  lead. 

"You  sound  very  merry,"  said  he,  nodding  his 
white  head.  "Go  on.  Proceed.  I  can  enjoy  my- 
self listening." 

The  men,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  again.  Kath- 
erine  touched  the  decanter,  and  glanced  toward 
Godbolt,  her  right-hand  neighbor.  He  looked  for 
her  glass,  found  she  had  none;  looked  at  his  own, 


TABLE    IN   THE    GROVE     129 

with  a  doubtful  air;  and  suddenly  flushing  red 
through  his  sunburn,  passed  the  decanter  on. 
"Here,  Arthur,"  he  mumbled.  Tisdale  poured 
himself  a  glass,  and  gave  the  decanter  to  Wallace, 
who  followed  his  example. 

"Sherry's  not  bad,  Mr.  Godbolt,"  said  the  little 
man  in  the  chair.  "It  rounded  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  when  I  was  your  age." 

The  sailor  faced  about  to  answer;  but  the  an- 
swer would  not  come.  He  seemed  in  great  con- 
fusion and  distress,  looked  once  toward  the  girl, 
then  avoided  her  eye. 

"It  ain't  the  reason,  sir,"  he  faltered  at  last. 
"It — it  really  ain't  the  reason." 

Tisdale  came  to  his  aid. 

"Miss  Fraye,  is  that  a  dove-cote  behind  you — 
the  peaked  thing  I  seem  to  see  overhead,  at  some 
distance?  We  thought  we  heard  pigeons  cooing. 
Your  carrier  got  home  safe,  I  suppose?" 

Never  did  a  subject  change  by  a  more  thorough 
somersault. 

"Home?  My  carrier?"  The  girl's  face  was 
all    bright    wonder    and    surprise.      "How    did 

you Have  you  seen  Walter?     Where  was 

he?    Did  he  say Did  Walter  give  you  any 

message?" 

Tisdale  shook  his  head.     It  was  a  pity,   he 


i3o  THEFARCRY 

thought,  looking  at  her,  to  overthrow  such  hopes, 
whatever  they  might  be. 

"We  haven't  seen  Walter,"  he  replied.  "Don't 
even  know  who  he  is." 

Miss  Fraye  bore  the  disappointment  well. 

"He's  my  brother,"  she  stated.  "I  was  anxious 
to  hear.     I  am  sorry."    Then  leaving  her  anxiety 

out  of  the  question "But  how  did  you  know  of 

my  pigeon?" 

Tisdale  raised  an  eye-brow  at  his  friends.  They 
laughed,  and  gave  him  the  telling  of  the  story. 
When  he  had  finished,  when  his  last  sentence  came 
home,  like  the  pigeon,  to  thTs  dark  and  peaceful 
grove  surrounding  them,  they  all  remained  silent 
for  a  time. 

Miss  Fraye  turned  toward  her  grandfather. 

"How  strange  it  is!  What  do  you  think  of  it, 
happening  so,  to-night?" 

The  old  man  stirred  in  his  gray  shroud. 

"Ask  these  young  men.    What  do  they  think?" 

She  fixed  her  brown  eyes  on  them  in  turn, 
seriously. 

"Well  ?  What  do  you  ?  What  does  it  mean  to 
you,  Mr.  Wallace? — having  my  pigeon  lead  you 
here?" 

"A  queer  coincidence,"  Wallace  replied,  hon- 
estly.   "A  thing  we  never  dreamed  of." 


TABLE    IN    THE    GROVE     131 

"And  to  you?"  The  brown  eyes  rested  on 
Arthur  Tisdale. 

uTo  me?"  laughed  that  young  man,  bowing: 
"our  very  great  good  fortune,  of  course." 

Miss  Fraye  turned,  somewhat  impatiently,  to 
Godbolt. 

"And  you?" 

The  sailor  raised  his  head,  and  gave  her  that 
steady,  sidelong  look  of  his. 

"I  don't  hardly  dare  to  say,"  he  answered 
quietly,  and  lowered  his  eyes.  "It  might  sound 
foolish. 

She  leaned  toward  him  quickly,  her  arms  on  the 
cloth. 

"No.    Do!    Say  it!" 

Godbolt  looked  at  her  again,  but  shook  his 
head. 

"Not  now." 

She  held  his  glance  with  her  own. 

"Later — some  day?" 

His  dark  face  lighted,  as  though  she  had  di- 
vined his  thought. 

"Yes,"  he  consented,  gravely.     "Some  day." 

The  girl's  face  glowed  likewise,  perhaps  be- 
cause it  took,  near  and  full,  the  brightness  of  the 
candles.  The  color  tingeing  her  brown  cheeks  was 
not  a  flush,  but  fine  transparent  youth;  the  lumin- 


i32  THE    FAR    CRY 

ous  quality  about  her  came  by  chance,  as  the  reflec- 
tions fluttered  round  her  hair,  or  caught  a  deep  and 
lively  answer  in  her  eyes.  Whatever  the  cause,  the 
effect  was  brief.  She  nodded  slowly,  thoughtfully, 
at  Godbolt's  promise;  withdrew  her  arms;  and 
sitting  as  before,  appeared  to  veil  this  momentary 
lustre. 

The  silver  bell  tinkled  under  her  hand.  The 
Chinaman  came  noiseless  out  of  limbo. 

"Kofi,"  she  ordered.     "Tig*." 

When  the  plump  phantom  had  vanished,  re- 
turned with  three  cups  of  coffee,  and  vanished 
again,  the  company  kept  their  former  silence. 

The  surf  grumbled,  far  out.  But  for  this,  the 
grove  was  still  as  an  empty  forest. 

Presently,  Tisdale  spoke,  with  his  cup  half-way 
to  his  lips. 

"That's  queer,"  said  he,  glancing  about. 
"We're  alone,  and  yet  I  keep  feeling  ..." 

Miss  Fraye  caught  his  words  up,  lightly. 

"What  do  you  feel?" 

Tisdale  shot  another  glance,  puckering  his  eye- 
brows. 

"As  if,n  he  began,  and  halted.  "As  if  we  sat 
on  a  stage,  behind  footlights — with  all  the  dark 
full  of  audience!  Yet  we're  alone:  you  can  hear 
how  much  we're  alone." 


TABLE    IN    THE    GROVE     133 

She  looked  mischief  at  the  trio. 

"Are  we?"  the  old  man  chuckled  in  his  chair. 
"Are  you? — Look  and  see." 

The  visitors  obeyed.  On  the  girl's  right,  they 
saw  the  house,  a  long,  low  bulk  deserted,  with  dim 
orange  squares  for  windows  and  door;  behind  her, 
behind  her  grandfather's  chair,  nothing  but  a  hint, 
a  looming  apex  of  the  dove-cote ;  roundabout  else- 
where, the  night,  a  high  wall  of  blackness  over- 
hung by  stars  which,  marvelously  near  the  tree- 
tops,  marvelously  thick,  seemed  painted  in  soft 
streaks  of  phosphorescent  gold. 

"Look  lower,"  advised  the  girl.  "Lower  yet. 
Near  the  ground." 

They  looked.  Inside  the  ring  of  light,  they  saw 
nothing.  Outside,  nothing  at  first;  little  by  little, 
after  hard  scrutiny  they  discerned  formless  white 
things  arranged  knee-high  along  the  floor  of  the 
grove  like  stunted  bushes  covered  with  snow.  The 
light  fell  short,  divulging  no  more.  But  among 
these  white  things  it  appeared,  now  and  then,  as 
if  tiny  movements  passed  fitfully.  At  last  the 
movements  could  be  named  or  guessed  at:  here, 
the  crooking  of  a  white-sleeved  elbow;  there,  the 
turning  of  a  shadowy  head,  so  that  eye-balls  or 
white  teeth  glimmered.  The  darkness  had  a  liv- 
ing hedge  at  its  border — a  line  of  people,  almost 


i34  THEFARCRY 

invisible,  who  lay  or  squatted  there  to  watch  and 
overhear. 

The  three  friends  faced  the  table  again,  rather 
stiffly,  like  men  who  at  a  banquet  find  themselves 
threatened  with  arrest.  The  discovery  embar- 
rassed them.  They  sat  here,  the  focus  of  many 
eyes,  their  privacy  the  privacy  of  gold-fish  in  a 
lighted  bowl. 

"Curious,  how  I  felt  them,"  said  Tisdale,  throw- 
ing off  his  constraint.  "Long  before  you  joined 
us,  even."  He  laughed,  and  repeated  boldly — 
"  'Thou  preparest  a  table  before  me  .  .  .   '" 

Miss  Fraye  smiled. 

"They're  not  enemies,  though,"  she  broke  in. 
"Friends,  all  friends,  our  islanders.  You're  not 
offended?  We  let  the  poor  things  look  on,  some- 
times of  an  evening,  because  it  comforts  them." 

Wallace,  aware  of  that  semi-circle  of  eyes  aim- 
ing like  arrows  at  his  back,  stirred  uneasily. 

"You  have  plenty  of  protectors,"  he  ventured. 

At  this  the  girl  laughed. 

"Protectors?"  her  grandfather  chuckled,  and 
shook  his  white  head.  "They're  afraid  of  the 
dark,  our  children  there.  Take  a  rattan  switch, 
and  you  could  drive  them  all  into  the  sea  I  Jump 
up,  Mr.  Wallace,  and  make  toward  them  as  if  you 
were  angry." 


TABLE    IN    THE    GROVE     135 

Wallace  hesitated,  then  sprang  afoot  and  took 
one  stride  from  the  table,  with  hand  uplifted. 

A  flutter,  a  confusion  of  little  squeaks  and  whis- 
pers, took  place  in  the  darkness.  The  vague  row 
of  watchers  burst  and  melted,  in  white  groups  that 
fled  crouching.  Wallace  borrowed  a  candle,  and 
held  it  above  his  head.  The  grove,  as  far  as  one 
could  see,  lay  vacant. 

Mr.  Fraye  called  from  his  chair: 

"Good  night,  my  friends  I" 

An  answer,  from  various  distances,  came  back 
as  the  fugitives  pattered  away  through  the  palms. 

"Good  night,  Master!''  the  voices  mourn- 
fully chanted,  like  those  which  at  sunset  had 
floated  over  the  lagoon.  "Good  night,  my  Mas- 
ter!" 

The  old  man's  eyes  twinkled. 

"You  observe  their  valor?  In  three  genera- 
tions, they  can  get  the  English  tongue,  but  not  the 
English  backbone !" 

He  lay  musing,  with  a  look  which  passed 
through  and  beyond  the  folk  at  table. 

"A  life-time — a  dream!"  Mr.  Fraye  spoke  to 
himself;  then  louder:  "Time  for  grandsires  to  be 
in  bed.    Ring  for  my  bearers,  Katherine." 

The  girl  rang  her  bell.  Her  guests  rose  with 
her,  and  stood  waiting.    The  four  dark  servants 


i36  THE    FAR    CRY 

appeared,  salaamed,  and  were  about  to  lift  the 
chair  when  Mr.  Fraye  signed  for  them  to  pause. 

"The  Chinaman  will  show  your  rooms,  gen- 
tlemen, whenever  you  choose  to  turn  in.  My 
boys  have  drawn  your  boat  up.  Ask  for  anything 
you  want.  Good  night !  It's  a  great  pleasure  to 
have  you  here." 

The  servants  raised  and  carried  him.  Miss 
Fraye  went  before,  a  candle  in  her  hand.  Half- 
way to  the  house,  he  suddenly  cried: 

"God  bless  me !  Cigars !  I  quite  forgot.  Kath- 
erine,  dear,  run  fetch  the  poor  chaps  a  box." 

When  the  girl  had  returned,  bringing  cheroots, 
she  bade  the  wanderers  good  night  once  more. 

"I'm  glad  you  are  here!"  She  looked  them  in 
the  eyes,  but  her  voice  trembled.  "I  mustn't  tell 
you  how  glad! — Till  after  breakfast,  then?"  she 
added,  and  was  moving  off. 

"Oh !  Boys !"  cried  Godbolt,  all  at  once.  "We 
forgot  some,  too.  Miss  Fraye :  a  man  went  past, 
before  dinner,  and  asked  us  to  go  .  .  .  That 
is  ...  "  The  sailor  floundered.  "I  mean,  he 
asked  after  your  grandfather's  health,  and  wanted 
us  to  ...  " 

The  girl's  face  altered. 

"A  white  man?"  she  inquired,  with  a  flash  of 
incredulity. 


TABLE    IN    THE    GROVE     137 

"Mr.  Mace." 

"He  came?"  Anger  shook  her — a  visible 
tremor  of  the  body.    "He  came  and  asked?" 

They  wondered  at  her  vehemence,  her  paleness, 
above  all  at  the  restraint  which  kept  her  from 
saying  more. 

"We  promised,"  Godbolt  stammered,  "to  go 
see  him  in  the  morning.  Please  .  .  .  We  weren't 
to  tell  your  grandfather." 

Katherine  viewed  him  coldly. 

"Ah?  Then  go,"  she  agreed,  with  bitter  un- 
concern.   "Go  by  all  means." 

She  started  walking  toward  the  house,  but 
halted  somewhere  under  the  trees.  After  a  long 
pause,  she  came  hurrying  back  toward  the  light. 
This  time  there  was  color  in  her  cheeks,  warmth 
in  her  eyes. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  begged;  and  the  sight  of 
her,  so  pretty  and  so  contrite,  moved  the  men 
strangely.  "I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude.  And  do, 
please,  make  your  visit  to-morrow  morning,  for  it 
may  help  you  to  understand." 

She  slipped  away  quickly,  as  if  ashamed.  They 
saw  her  cross  the  veranda  and  enter  a  lighted 
doorway. 

Not  long  afterward,  they  heard  her  singing  in 
the  house.     The  song  was  not  for  them;  only  a 


i38  THE    FAR    CRY 

private  matter,  with  breaks  and  delays  while  the 
singer  busily  came  and  went  between  rooms.  It 
was  something  about  a  dove  and  the  Grail. 

Her  own  dove-cote  was  fast  asleep ;  so  was  the 
grove;  but  the  three  men  stayed  as  she  had  left 
them,  astonished,  forgetting  the  presence  of  to- 
bacco, and  staring  at  the  desolate  candles. 


CHAPTER     XI 


A   MORNING   CALL 


The  bedrooms  to  which  the  Chinaman  guided 
them,  were  in  a  bungalow  hid  by  a  small  forest  of 
its  own — a  heavy  cluster  of  broad  banana  sheaves. 
Each  room,  lighted  by  candles,  stood  open  to  its 
neighbor  and  formed  a  gallery  of  cool  spaces,  with 
clean  white  wallcloth,  brown  polished  floor,  and 
beds  veiled  cubically  in  mosquito  gauze,  like  so 
many  tall  boxes  of  mist. 

While  they  undressed,  the  friends  paid  visits 
back  and  forth,  straying  barelegged  or  bare- 
chested,  smoking,  inspecting  one  another's  quar- 
ters, talking  by  snatches,  after  the  fashion  of  men 
at  bed-time. 

"She  faces  the  lagoon,  this  bungalow,"  Wallace 
proclaimed. 

All  three  heads  popped  out  at  window,  to  ad- 
mire a  lake  full  of  stars  beyond  the  foliage. 
Ashore,  a  stone's  throw  distant  on  the  right  hand, 

139 


i4o  THE    FAR    CRY 

they  saw  a  pair  of  oblong  lights  that  suddenly 
went  out  as  Mr.  Fraye,  or  his  grand-daughter, 
put  the  main  house  to  sleep. 

"Pretty  girl,  that,"  continued  Wallace. 

Tisdale  snorted. 

"Feeble,  Robin.  Very  feeble  terms  for  her, 
aren't  they,  Francis  ?" 

Godbolt  flung  his  cheroot  into  the  dark.  When 
his  reply  came,  it  was  fervent,  but  indirect. 

"Kings  couldn't  treat  us  handsomer  I"  He 
turned  indoors.  "Mosquito-bars  that  hoist  on  pul- 
leys clean  to  the  ceiling — mark  that,  boys? — And 
the  bottom  hem  all  weighted  full  o'  shot,  flush  to 
the  floor,  so's  a  gnat  couldn't  crawl  into  bed  with 
ye!" 

After  lights  out,  he  was  heard  to  stretch  in  a 
Capuan  luxury  of  linen. 

"Boys-oh!"  he  yawned  mightily.  "The  sheets 
here  smell  o'  cedar-closet,  way  they  use'  to  at 
home!" 

Surf  grumbled  and  whispered;  landlocked  water 
lapped  the  distant  foot  of  the  jetty;  and  to  these 
sounds  the  men  sank  through  a  region  deeper  than 
dreaming. 

They  woke  to  find  the  sun  over  the  island,  and 
their  plantain  thicket  dazzling  in  broad  pennons, 
apph-green  and  silver.    The  lagoon  pieced  every 


A    MORNING    CALL  141 

gap  with  the  same  shining  colors.  Against  this 
background,  there  stood  in  the  veranda  a  break- 
fast table  all  complete,  with  red  roses  crowning  a 
bowl,  and  a  little  glass  tower  in  which  coffee 
steamed  and  bubbled  fragrantly.  A  tall  man  stood 
waiting  there — the  brown  punkah  giant  of  last 
evening. 

"Good  morning,  sirs!"  he  greeted  them  shyly, 
in  a  mellow  baritone.  "My  master  hope  you  have 
slept  well.  My  master  send  the  kimono" — he 
held  up  an  armful  of  colored  vesture — "and  bath- 
ing sarong.  Your  clothes  are  being  ironed.  I 
will  bring  them  after  breakfast.  If  you  wish  any- 
thing, sirs,  call  out  for  Anak.    My  name  is  Anak." 

Parting  both  hands  in  a  magnificent  gesture 
from  the  forehead,  he  bowed  low,  and  strode 
away. 

When  they  had  bathed  in  the  lagoon,  and 
brought  great  appetite  to  breakfast,  they  found 
this  Anak — child  by  nature  as  by  name — waiting 
timidly  to  serve  them;  and  after  breakfast,  as  they 
lounged  in  cool  blue  kimonos,  he  fetched  not  only 
their  own  clothing — fresh  and  smooth,  with  but- 
tons polished — but  also  two  wicker  trays,  one 
heaped  with  canvas  pumps,  the  other  with  Goa- 
lundo  pith  helmets,  whiter  and  lighter  than  snow. 

"My  master  wish  you  try  these,"  murmured 


i42  THE    FAR    CRY 

Anak,  offering  the  gifts.  "If  they  not  fit,  my  mas- 
ter say,  plenty  more  in  the  go-down. "  He  with- 
drew among  shining  plantains,  and  to  another 
obeisance,  added  more  shyly  than  ever:  "Sirs,  I 
think  Mr.  Mace  have  sent  a  boat.  His  man  wait- 
ing." 

Clean-shaven,  light-hearted,  spotless  from  toe 
to  helmet,  they  set  off  at  last  on  their  morning  call. 
A  foot-path  took  them  down  the  drooping  banana 
glade  to  the  beach;  and  as  they  deployed  there, 
each  man  smiled  to  see  his  fellow  move  so  brisk 
and  soldier-like  in  the  vainglory  of  new  apparel. 

The  beach  glared  like  an  immense  bunker  full 
of  salt.  Where  still  green  water  curved  into  it, 
below,  lay  a  boat  with  a  little  boatman  dozing 
under  a  toadstool  hat.  At  their  hail,  he  squirted 
tobacco  juice  over  the  gunwale,  straddled  wearily 
out  upon  the  wet  coral,  and  in  a  sort  of  cringing 
apathy,  let  his  three  fares  climb  past  him  into  the 
skiff.  With  spidery  brown  arms  he  shoved  off,  and 
took  the  oars.  As  he  rowed,  his  naked  ribs,  collar- 
bone, and  point  of  scapula  strained  out  glistening, 
like  knuckles  in  a  rubber  glove;  at  every  stroke  his 
knee-caps  pointed  through  his  cotton  trousers.  To 
any  question,  no  matter  what,  he  agreed  unthink- 
ingly with  a — "Bai  Tuan" — hoarse  and  broken- 
winded,  while  his  eyes  followed  his  moving  hands. 


A    MORNING    CALL  143 

"A  Bugi,  this  fellow,"  declared  Godbolt.  "Al- 
ways chewing  a  fig  o'  tobacco,  Bugis  are.  That's 
no  voice  o'  this  island,  neither. — Apa  nama,  ye 
corrugated  runt?" 

"Satrap,  Tuan,"  wheezed  the  rower,  and  spat, 
like  a  man  whose  name  meant  nothing  in  this  world 
or  the  next. 

So  forlorn  a  puppet  had  no  business  on  a  stage 
so  brilliant.  The  candescence  of  the  beach  floated 
along  their  port  side,  fiercely  white,  but  now  at  a 
bearable  remove.  Calm  as  any  midsummer  pond, 
the  imprisoned  bay  reflected  all  things  in  a  blur, 
as  though  the  shore  had  begun  to  melt  and  run. 
Dragon-flies  hotly  burnished,  now  single,  now 
coupled  in  tandem,  darted  past  the  boat  or 
stopped  above  it,  thrilling  with  motion,  yet  seem- 
ing to  stick  fast  in  the  oppressive  air.  It  was  odd 
to  see  them — familiar  ornaments  for  woodland 
and  meadow  waters — quivering  over  this  ocean 
pool  in  whose  pale  green  chamber  the  sea  fishes 
gleamed,  shadows  of  ginger  coral  wavered,  and 
monstrous  clams  on  bottom  lay  gaping  with  blue- 
beaded  lids.  Dragon-flies  close  aboard;  white 
gulls  that  wheeled  and  mewed  far  off;  the  whiter 
pointed  wings  of  little  fishing  boats  clustered  be- 
yond them,  across  the  lagoon;  the  farther  beach,  a 
thread  of  snow  beneath  dark  woods — everything, 


i44  THEFARCRY 

from  submarine  foundation  to  highest  glittering 
palm-blade,  moved  or  lay  steeping  in  excess  of 
light. 

"Yesterday  was  Sunday!"  Wallace  exclaimed, 
like  one  who  had  guessed  a  riddle.  "We  lost 
count.  Sunday!  That's  why  the  place  was  all  so 
empty,  when  we  got  here." 

Godbolt  nodded,  squinting  under  his  lashes  at 
the  fishing-fleet. 

"You  clinched  that  nail,  Rob,"  he  muttered  ap- 
provingly. "Slews  o'  brand  new,  clean  canvas  over 
there,  too — none  o'  your  rotten  mats.  Mr.  Fraye 
keeps  his  natives  Bristol-fashion.  But  where  does 
old  man  Mace  hang  forth,  anyhow?" 

Their  boat  answered  him,  by  turning  a  promon- 
tory of  palms  and  ironwood,  and  opening  a  small 
channel,  choked  with  reefs,  through  which  they 
caught  a  glimpse  of  ocean  tossing  its  white  mane. 
Another  tiny  cape,  ahead,  concealed  the  mouth  of 
another  channel,  for  there  as  here  the  ebb-tide 
poured  out,  pulling  flaws  in  the  glassy  water.  Thus 
the  men  became  aware  that  Fraye's  Atoll,  which 
they  had  taken  for  one  island,  was  really  three, 
conjoined  or  overlapping  a  circuit;  and  that  now 
Satrap,  the  lean  rower,  was  heading  for  the  mid- 
dle fragment  of  shore. 

"Good  lads,  good  lads!"  called  someone,  as 


thev  disci 


A    MORNING    CALL  145 

ey  disembarked  among  hopping  sand-crabs.  "I 
began  to  fear  you  wouldn't  come." 

They  looked  up.  At  the  head  of  a  blinding  fore- 
shore Mr.  Mace  waved  his  helmet  abroad.  Tall, 
wiry,  in  gray  flannels  of  a  sportive  cut,  he  seemed 
anything  but  that  obscure  passer  whom  they  had 
seen  doubtfully  in  the  grove,  last  night. 

"Come,  come  up!"  he  chirruped,  gaily.  "I've 
a  cold  welcome  for  you !  Better  than  a  warm  one, 
this  weather,  eh?" 

He  shook  hands  eagerly  with  Tisdale  and  Wal- 
lace. Godbolt  came  later,  having  paused  to  give 
the  boatman  a  cheroot,  with  a  word  or  two,  al- 
though neither  gift  nor  speech  evoked  more  than 
a  blink  of  understanding. 

"Good  lads,"  cried  Mace,  "to  visit  an  old  fogy  I 
Aha,  Captain  Godbolt,  your  hand  also !  Come, 
come !"  He  began  to  herd  them  inland,  very  spry, 
very  fussy,  and  talking  all  the  while.  His  long 
visage  beamed,  his  gray  cheeks  reddened  with  ex- 
citement. "Welcome  to  Mango  Island !  Not  so 
grand  as  Tom  Fraye's  place,  but — well,  you  wait, 
my  boys !  Such  as  it  is !  A  cold  welcome,  you  may 
say.  It  would  make  a  cat  speak,  though !  Oliver 
Mace  keeps  his  own  ice  machine!" 

With  these  and  other  blandishments,  he  urged 
his  company  through  mottled  palm  shade,  into  a 


i46  THE    FAR    CRY 

hot  clearing  and  a  great  attap  house  that  sprawled 
there.  Indoors,  a  cool,  dark  room  stretched  away 
like  a  sail-loft.  After  their  first  plunge  from  sun- 
light to  blackness,  the  callers  found  themselves 
grouped  about  a  rattan  table,  where  four  glasses 
of  champagne  stood  seething. 

"Here's  fun!"  Mace  greedily  set  the  example. 
"Boys,  I'm  a  bachelor,  too.  Ageing,  the  calen- 
dar says,  but  full  of  pepper.  Jolly  bachelors  all. 
Here's  to  you,  my  contemporaries !" 

Wallace  and  Tisdale  raised  their  glasses. 

"Captain?"  Mace  turned  with  an  injured  air. 
"You're  never  T.T.?" 

"I'm  up  the  pole,"  explained  Godbolt,  care- 
lessly. "Don't  mind  me."  He  wandered  about 
the  room,  studying  the  walls,  on  which  hung  many 
barbaric  trophies:  match-locks,  targets  of  painted 
wood  or  buffalo  hide,  treacherous  campilans  in  the 
split  scabbard;  but  most  often  things  of  feminine 
import — brass-wire  hoops  from  a  Dyak  woman's 
corselet,  a  silver  fig-leaf,  or  the  leering  ingenuity 
of  Cantonese  fans,  reversible,  in  water-colors.  Be- 
fore these  the  sailor  pondered,  like  a  man  lost  in 
a  museum;  but  when  he  spoke,  it  was  of  an  outdoor 
matter,  quite  beside  the  point.  "Which  way,"  he 
called,  "does  the  current  set  from  here,  Mr.  Mace, 
flood  running?" 


A    MORNING    CALL  147 

The  jolly  bachelor  was  rattling  a  bottle  among 
cakes  of  artificial  ice,  in  a  bucket  on  the  floor. 

"Which  way?  Over  toward  Fraye's  beach — 
dear  old  Tom's  landing.    Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Godbolt,  and  moved  far- 
ther down  the  room.  "That's  my  trade — currents, 
and  winds,  and  general  drift  of  orts.   .   .  " 

His  voice  trailed  off  to  suit  the  words,  a  rum- 
ble of  sound  from  a  corner.  The  other  men  al- 
lowed him  to  go,  and  soon  forgot  him.  Mr.  Mace 
was  telling  stories,  fluently  and  well,  with  a  kind 
of  crabbed  humor.  At  sea,  or  on  the  Isle  of  Birds, 
there  was  no  such  fun  as  here.  This  was  Bache- 
lors' Hall,  built  in  attap,  large  and  dark  and  cool, 
where  the  wine  was  good  and  talk  abounding. 
Time  passed. 

"Here,  Sainty!"  A  convivial  shout  went  up. 
"O  Francis!    Captain,  come  here  a  moment!" 

The  unsocial  wanderer  stood  near  a  window, 
reading.  He  laid  his  book  aside,  and  came  down 
the  room  in  his  easy,  rolling  gait,  unhurried. 

"Well?    What  is  it?" 

"Why,  look  here."  They  all  spoke  at  once. 
"We'd  better  stay.  We're  going  to  camp  here. 
You're  right  about  it,  Mr.  Mace.  Look.  Sit 
down.    We've  been  talking " 

"So  I  heard,"  interrupted  the  sailor,  drily.    He 


i48  THE    FAR    CRY 

crossed  his  arms  over  the  back  of  a  chair,  and 
looked  on,  big,  sunburnt,  and  droll  as  a  bad  boy. 
"Saying  anything,  to  speak  of  ?" 

"Here's  our  problem,  Captain.1'  Mace  held  in 
sinewy  fingers  a  wine-glass,  and  smiling,  watched 
the  bubbles  that  crowded  up  its  hollow  stalk. 
"We've  all  agreed — I'm  happy  to  say — that 
Mango  Island's  a  better  place  than  Fraye's.  For 
you  to  live  in,  I  mean,  while  poor  Tom's  ill.  De- 
lights me  to  have  you  think  so."  He  nodded 
kindly  at  his  auditors,  and  continued,  smiling  and 
dozing  over  the  words.  "Now,  then.  He's  a 
touchy  old  nabob,  is  Tom.  How  shall  we  word 
our  message  to  him,  a  nice  little  chit,  polite  and 
smooth,  so  as  to  hurt  no  feelings?" 

Godbolt  shot  one  hard  look  at  his  friends. 

"Afraid  I  can't  help  you." 

"Another  bottle  can."  Mr.  Mace  got  nimbly 
out  of  his  chair.  "Composition's  a  dry,  thirsty 
performance.  Wait  till  I  unlock  the  bin,  for 
there's  no  trusting  these  brown  devils  with  liquor." 

Jingling  a  bunch  of  keys,  the  speaker  ambled 
across  the  room,  through  a  doorway,  into  some 
backward  penetralia  of  the  house.  He  was  hardly 
gone,  when  Godbolt,  pouncing  ambidexterously, 
whipped  away  the  glass  from  either  friend, 
stepped  lightly  to  the  nearest  window,  and  flung 


A    MORNING    CALL  149 

a  double  jet  of  champagne  froth  into  the  sunshine. 

"There!"  he  grunted  "Now  come  to  your 
senses." 

The  two  men  at  the  table  stared,  by  no  means 
amiably. 

"I  must  say,"  began  Tisdale,  "that's  rather 
high-handed!" 

Godbolt  swept  a  commanding  paw  at  them,  for 
silence. 

"You  babes  in  the  wood!"  he  whispered,  his 
bright,  black  eyes  dancing.  It  was  impossible  to 
tell  which  was  uppermost  in  him,  anger,  caution, 
or  a  desire  to  laugh.  "I  never  figgered  you'd  fall 
so  easy  to  that  old  fox !  You  !  Drinking  against 
him,  you — you  infant  class  !" 

At  this,  out  flared  the  moody  Wallace. 

"We're  of  age,  thank  you.  Perhaps  you're  cap- 
tain on  land,  still?" 

The  sailor  blazed  up  in  his  turn. 

"No !"  he  boomed,  indignant  and  scornfv  . 
"No,  I  ain't  forgot!  Seems  to  me  you  have, 
though.      Seems   to    me   you    sat   there    gullible 

enough,  drinking  in  taffy  and  fool-wash Oh, 

I  can  hear  the  length  of  a  room:  I  heard  old  But- 
ter-Tongue a-complimenting  round  ye.     Smooth 

and  polite,  says  he No,  I  ain't  a  captain ;  my 

only  command  was  a  joke ;  and  small  need  you  had, 


i5o  THE    FAR    CRY 

Rob,  to  remind  mc  o'  that !  But  if  I  was  the  man- 
giest fireman  out  o'  Mersey  river,  I'd  show  more 
grateful  than  what  this  comes  to!" 

The  pair  of  revelers  wondered  at  him.  His 
heat  overbore  their  petulance. 

"Grateful?     What's  wrong,  Sainty?" 

Another  voice  echoed  the  question. 

"Yes,  what's  wrong,  indeed?"  Mace  had  re- 
entered, softly.  He  paused  at  the  door,  a  lank, 
gray  figure  carrying  weight,  two  bottles  in  each 
hand,  like  some  pedestrian  John  Gilpin.  "My 
dear  men?    What  on  earth  is  all  this  hubbub?" 

Godbolt  faced  him,  unabashed. 

"It's  a  hard  thing,  sir,  to  speak  out  in  your 
house.  But  here  goes.  Mr.  Fraye  treated  us 
handsome,  not  to  mention — others.  They  were 
looking  for  us  back  to-night.  Why,  Lord  knows : 
any  more'n  why  you're  frolicking  to  keep  us  here. 
But  for  myself,  Mr.  Mace,  and  all  due  thanks  to 
you,  well,  home  goes  Goosey!" 

Like  a  pin-setter  in  a  bowling  alley,  Mace  care- 
fully planted  his  bottles  upright  on  the  floor. 

"If  you  must  go?"  he  replied  blandly,  as  he 
rose.  "The  three  of  us  can  manage.  We'll  miss 
you,  Captain." 

But  Godbolt  had  not  finished. 

"You  boys,"  he  went  on,  sternly,  "can  choose 


A    MORNING    CALL  151 

how  you  like  best.  You  come  of  age  recently,  I 
understand.  All  right.  Mr.  Mace  he's  getting 
you  sewed  up.    Better  stay." 

"Sainty !"  cried  the  young  men,  in  rebuke. 

"Better  stay."  Godbolt,  apparently  cool,  went 
searching  round  for  a  helmet.  He  stopped,  and 
cracked  his  fists  together.  "Stay,  and  disappoint 
a  woman  who  believes  in  ye !  Stay,  and  forget  an 
old  sick  man  that  fed  ye,  housed  ye  off  the  sea, 
never  asked  no  question,  but  shod  ye  with  what 
you're  standing  in!" 

He  found  his  helmet  on  a  chair.  The  two  cul- 
prits uneasily  watched  him.  Their  festivity  was 
ended.  They  felt,  in  this  long,  still  room,  the  con- 
met  of  two  stubborn  wills. 

"Good-bye,  then,"  said  Godbolt.  "I'm  going 
back  to  main  island." 

This  farewell,  being  simple,  carried  the  day. 
Tisdale  rose;  Wallace  followed;  each  mumbled 
something  of  regret  and  leave-taking;  and  both 
awkwardly  awaited  the  next  movement. 

It  came  from  their  host.  Oliver  Mace  drew 
toward  them,  slowly,  his  face  grayer  than  his  flan- 
nels. 

"So,  Mr.  Godbolt?"  he  drawled,  and  there  was 
venom  in  his  look.  "When  your  highness  finds  a 
place  dull,  nobody  else  can  stay  there?     What — > 


i52  THE    FAR    CRY 

what  «■'■■"  He  stammered  and  choked ;  his  eyes 
grew  smaller,  and  in  a  shrill  outcry  that  seemed  to 
vent  years  of  hatred — "What  damned  lie  has 
Fraye  been  telling  about  me?" 

"There,  boys."  Godbolt  spoke  with  cool  dis- 
gust. "There.  Judge  for  yourself.  That  the 
kind  o'  language  we  heard  last  night?  Pick  your 
choice." 

This  quarrel  had  begun  strangely  enough;  it 
now  came  to  a  stranger  end.  Mr.  Mace,  his  arms 
clasped  rigidly  behind  him,  went  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room,  angrily  at  first,  then  more  and 
more  thoughtfully,  with  a  footfall  retarding  to  a 
dead  pause.  He  had  gone  from  red  to  pale  again, 
from  hot  to  cold;  and  when  he  spoke,  it  was  hard 
to  believe  that  a  voice  so  gentle  could  have  assailed 
their  ears,  a  moment  ago,  like  the  wicked  scream 
of  a  sea-gull. 

"I  never  meant  that,"  he  said  quietly,  chafing 
his  lips  as  though  he  had  taken  bitter  medicine. 
"I'm  heartily  ashamed.  Heartily.  What  a  mis- 
fortune it  is,  gentlemen,  to  inherit  a  vile  temper!" 
He  shook  his  head,  with  a  melancholy  smile.  "And 
to  let  it  go — of  all  times ! — when  I  was  hoping  you 
might  think  well  of  me!  Ah,  dear  chaps,  you 
know  my  worst  failing  now:  you  can  understand 
how  I've  come  to  be  living  alone !" 


A    MORNING    CALL  153 

Pathos  marked  this  recantation.  The  man  sent 
a  forlorn  glance  round  his  great  room,  as  if  al- 
ready he  saw  it  a  desert  place,  and  himself  the  lean 
companion  of  shadows. 

"Well!  'Twas  ever  thus,  my  fond  gazelles." 
Mace  nodded,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "I  can't 
force  you  to  stay.  Tiffin  first,  however.  Pot-luck. 
Oh,  but  I  insist !  You  sha'n't  leave  without  tiffin ! 
It's  ordered.  I'll  go  tell  the  mandur  to  serve  you 
at  once." 

Retreating  past  his  row  of  bottles,  Mr.  Mace 
left  the  room.  For  all  his  humility,  and  in  spite 
of  a  shambling  gait,  there  was  something  grim 
about  that  exit. 

Wallace  and  Tisdale  immediately  closed  on 
their  comrade. 

"Sainty,  what  the  dickens?"  they  whispered. 
"What  got  into  you?" 

The  obstreperous  captain  only  laughed,  and 
wagged  an  iron  fore-finger. 

"Watch!"  he  growled.  "Watch  old  Oliver 
Be'lzebub  there!  He's  got  a  bushel  of  mischief 
coming  1" 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE    SECOND    WHITE    BIRD 

Mischief  might  be  afoot,  but  none  appeared. 
High  noon  glared  through  the  windows  and  chinks 
in  the  plaited  walls.  Mace  did  not  even  return; 
and  when  at  last  a  footstep  broke  the  tedium  of 
waiting,  it  was  only  the  scuffle  of  bare  soles.  A 
morose,  elderly  native,  in  cotton  jacket  and  blue 
kilt,  entered  from  the  back  of  the  room,  and  cross- 
ing it  without  a  word,  sourly  beckoned  the  three 
men  to  follow. 

They  filed  after  him,  through  the  front  veranda, 
the  torrid  clearing,  the  palm  belt;  until,  with  a  nod 
of  scant  courtesy,  their  guide  halted,  slid  aside, 
and  deserting,  let  them  pass  on  toward  the  gleam 
of  the  lagoon. 

"There,  Sainty!"  cried  Tisdale.  "That  ought 
to  shame  you!" 

The  shore  at  this  point  fell  steeply  away,  almost 
without  a  beach.     Tall  "monkey-laddered"  palms 

154 


SECOND    WHITE    BIRD     155 

hung  slanting,  their  heads  over  the  water,  but  their 
matted  shadows  so  falling  as  to  cover  the  verge  of 
land.  Under  this  high  protection,  like  a  mon- 
arch's divan  beneath  umbrellas,  a  rude  platform  or 
gazebo  stood,*  and  on  it  a  table  set  for  tiffin,  with 
three  chairs.  Nobody  was  in  sight,  nor  any  food 
except  a  mound  of  golden  papaya  and  sliced  lem- 
ons; but  from  below,  at  the  water's  edge,  a  husk 
fire  sent  up  its  aromatic  smoke,  and  an  iron  pot 
was  clinking.  A  pair  of  gulls  hovered,  peevishly 
complaining,  between  the  water  and  the  tree-tops. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed?"  repeated  Tisdale. 
"Here  are  coals  of  fire  for  your  stubborn  old 
head!" 

Godbolt  had  nothing  to  say.  They  leaned,  all 
three,  on  the  rail  of  the  platform,  and  looked  over. 
Down  at  the  foot  of  the  little  precipice,  a  half- 
naked  man  was  mending  the  fire.  He  glanced  up 
once.  It  was  the  emaciated  boatman,  Satrap. 
Near  him,  on  a  hand's  breadth  of  coral  powder, 
lay  his  boat;  and  on  the  forward  thwart,  a  basket 
in  which  shone  a  great  fish. 

"I  feel  like  a  fool !"  groaned  Wallace,  viewing 
the  preparation  below.  "This  Mace — he's  an  ec- 
centric if  you  like.  But  he  was  doing  his  best,  poor 
old  fellow.  Why  under  heaven,  Francis,  did  you 
cut  up  so?" 


156  THE    FAR    CRY 

The  sailor  took  his  elbows  from  the  rail,  and 
pointed  easterly  across  the  lagoon,  toward  those 
low  woods  where,  some  three  miles  off,  Fraye's 
jetty  showed  a  black  nick  in  the  curving  water. 

"Flood  running,"  he  replied,  slowly,  "the  cur- 
rent sets  over  there.  Mace  told  me — you  heard 
him.  Well :  you  saw  Fraye's  beach,  when  we  first 
come,  yesterday,  all  one  litter  o'  champagne  corks. 
Who  pulled  them  corks?  Mace  did;  Mace  does; 
— and  they  drift  over,  day  in,  day  out.  Thick  as 
grasshoppers  in  the  fall,  they  are.  I  wouldn't  pin 
no  faith  to  words,  'polite  and  smooth,'  you  under- 
stand, when  a  man  does  so  much  elbow-work. 
Would  you?" 

He  turned  on  them,  earnestly,  for  corrobora- 
tion. 

"Go  ahead,"  they  urged.    "What  else  ?" 

He  laughed. 

"Not  much.  Not  to  count  much,  anyhow.  Ever 
lived  fo'c's'le,  'twould  cure  the  squeams  and  make 

ye  easy-going.    But  in  there "  Godbolt  jerked 

his  thumb  back  towards  the  house  they  had  quitted 
— "In  there,  some  things  that  old  customer  hangs 
on  his  walls.  They're  filthy !  Filthy!  You  can  put 
that  down,  boys:   they  were  too  strong  for  me!" 

Again  he  laughed,  but  there  was  no  sound  of 
pleasure  in  it. 


SECOND    WHITE    BIRD     157 

'That's  all?"  said  Wallace.  "I  don't  sec,  now, 
what  made  you  get  so  hot !" 

Godbolt  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  with  one 
hand,  reached  out  the  other  to  collar  Tisdale,  and 
so,  leaning  between  the  malcontents  with  his  arms 
hooked  over  their  necks,  spoke  in  a  lowered  voice. 

"Hot?  Got  hot  o'  purpose,  I  guess.  You  see, 
it  lies  about  so-fashion,  mates."  He  parted  sharp 
glances  between  them,  nodding  now  at  one,  now 
at  the  other,  to  enforce  his  thought.  "You  see  this 
far  into  the  mill-stone,  don't  you?  There's  two 
camps  on  the  lagoon:  hers — Fraye's,  I  mean — 
and  this  old  superannuated  bob-cat,  Mace's.  Two 
camps;  and  a  feud  between  'em!  Feud? — If 
ever  you  nosed  one  in  the  air,  you  ought  to  now, 
my  duckies !  Last  night,  when  we  rowed  in  off 
the  sea,  you  heard  'em  singing  out  and  whining, 
the  pig-tenders  there  in  the  bush,  begging  us  to  go 
away.  Because  why?  Because  they  took  us  for 
scouts — a  boat-crew  o'  Mace's.  And  when  we 
landed,  and  tramped  up  the  jetty,  with  axes,  mind 
ye! — who  comes  out  to  us  but  that  girl,  playing 
bold  as  a  queen?  'Mr.  Mace  sent  you?'  says  she, 
first  crack.  'No,'  says  we,  the  gang  o'  mudlarks. 
And  she  believed  us !" 

Godbolt  gave  his  hearers  a  little  argumentative 
shake. 


158  THE    FAR    CRY 

"Katherine,  she  believed  us!"  he  cried.  "And 
her  old  man,  too  sick  to  breathe,  what  of  him? 
First  crack:  'I  ain't  afraid  o'  you,'  he  allows,  'and 
Mace  had  better  provide  a  stretcher!'  Game  as 
a  bantam.  Game  all  the  way  through,  that  pair! 
And  when  they  found  us  for  strangers  that  never 
heard  o'  Mace?  What  happened  then?  Not  a 
word !  Not  a  word,  pip  nor  yip  !  'Neighborhood 
affair,'  says  they:  'judge  for  yourselves.' — The 
feud  coming  to  a  head,  plain;  Mace  to  have  next 
move,  whatever  it  was;  and  them  sick,  and  fright- 
ened, and  lacking  help.  Did  they  call  on  us?  Not 
for  Joe !  they  wouldn't  lead  us  into  trouble  blind- 
fold, not  their  kind,  by  thunder!" 

The  sailor  ended  with  a  passionate  swoop  of 
his  arm.  The  two  great  fishing-gulls  took  fright, 
and  flew  off,  to  squall  and  circle  at  a  better  dis- 
tance. 

Tisdale  gave  in  with  ready  grace. 

"You  do  our  thinking  for  us,  Sainty.  It's  we 
that  ought  to  feel  ashamed." 

"And  so  we  do !"  cried  Wallace,  glowing  darkly 
as  he  caught  the  fire  of  suspicion.  "The  Pre- 
tender— that's  Mace.  I  see  it!  Mace  wants  to 
grab  the  island,  somehow;  and  we  might  stand 
in  his  way.  It's  A.  B.  C,  boys !  No  wonder  he 
cottoned  to  us  so !" 


SECOND    WHITE    BIRD     159 

Godbolt  smiled  on  his  pupils. 

"Love  at  first  sight  was  Mace's  complaint,"  he 
assured  them.  uMace  came  a-scenting  round  the 
cook-house  door  last  nightfall,  to  see  if  'dear  old 
Tom'  was  dead,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  What  he 
saw,  instead,  was  us — three  hard-favored  runa- 
gates, if  ever  was.  A  tough  pill  to  swallow.  But 
I  give  Mace  credit,  fellows :  he  came  nigh  swallow- 
ing us  to-day!" 

They  winced  at  this  view  of  their  conduct. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  over!"  cried  Godbolt,  hastily. 
"I  judge  we  all  agree."  He  balanced  right  hand 
against  left.  "Here's  Pretender,  and  here's  King. 
Not  to  mention  a  fine  young  queen  of  a  girl. 
Which  camp  are  you  for,  Arthur?  Which  camp, 
Robin,  old  socks  ?    Mace's  camp,  or  Fraye's  ?" 

Before  they  could  utter  their  choice,  a  most 
unwelcome  sound,  from  behind  them,  cleft  their 
conference  in  two  like  the  fall  of  an  axe. 

"Ah!     So?" 

Oliver  Mace  had  rejoined  them,  or  come  at 
least  to  the  island  edge  of  the  platform.  The 
steward  in  the  kilt  stole  past  him,  placed  on  the 
table  three  yellow  glasses  of  "Mango  Fool,"  and 
shuffled  away  through  the  trees.  Mace  leaned  one 
hand  on  a  palm-shaft.  He  was  hatless,  pale, 
older  and  thinner  than  he  had  seemed  before.    His 


i6o  THE    FAR    CRY 

face  hung  down,  weary  and  long  and  stupid,  like 
that  of  a  cart  horse  looking  over  a  fence. 

"So?"  His  free  hand  groped  in  the  air,  as 
though  fingering  after  some  difficult  word.  "You 
recognize  the  situation?"  He  raised  his  eyes, 
quickly;  and  they  burned  with  a  nameless  ques- 
tion, imploring,  threatening,  evading.  "Which 
camp,"  he  cried  at  last,  in  a  harsh,  dull  voice, 
"which  camp  are  you  for,  then,  gentlemen?  Speak 
now,  or  forever  after  ..."  He  broke  off  with 
a  scared  look.  "I  .  .  .  that  is  ...  I  beg  you 
to  think  twice.  I  warn  you,  I  did  my  best  to  .  .  . 
to  prevent  .   .  .   anything!" 

The  three  friends  bowed.  They  felt  a  sudden 
respect,  not  for  the  man,  but  for  the  grave,  secret 
matter  which  could  leave  him  shaken  and  stam- 
mering, and  could  even  weigh  upon  them  also. 

"We  have  chosen,"  said  Tisdale,  quietly.  "For 
the  Frayes." 

Mace  lowered  his  eyes  again,  and  slowly  shook 
his  head.  He  let  his  fingers  crumple  and  slide 
from  the  palm  trunk,  so  that  hand  and  arm  fell 
inert.  It  was  a  lifeless,  pathetic  gesture.  He 
stood  there,  visibly  trembling;  and  as  if  to  mock 
his  agitation,  a  spot  of  sunlight  was  juggled  by 
the  branches  overhead,  and  set  to  playing  touch 
and  go  across  his  gray  hair. 


SECOND    WHITE    BIRD     161 

"You're  quite  determined?"  The  man's  voice 
failed.  He  cleared  his  throat,  pulled  himself  to- 
gether by  a  shambling  hoist  of  one  shoulder,  and 
for  the  moment  seemed  ready  to  let  go  a  rush 
of  words.  None  came.  He  drooped  again,  and 
repeated  lamely:  "Quite  determined?" 

"Quite,  thank  you,"  they  answered. 

In  his  gray  flannels,  Mace  had  the  air  of  a  tall, 
sick  priest. 

"Sit  down,"  he  counseled,  weakly.  "Take  your 
tiffin,  I  beg.  Pot-luck.  I — I  cannot  join  you 
now,  gentlemen.  Excuse  me  for  the  time.  I  am 
not  well.  An  old  touch  of  the  sun.  Pray  be  seated. 
Satrap  is  cooking  it  fresh  for  you  on  the  beach.  I 
cannot  eat.  Do,  please,  do.  Oh,  gentlemen!"  he 
stammered,  piercing  them  with  a  subtle,  fervent 
look,  "enjoy  yourselves  to-day!  Who  knows 
where  we  shall  be  to-morrow?" 

And  even  while  he  posed  this  ancient  riddle, 
Mr.  Mace  abruptly  turned,  and  went  tottering 
back  toward  where  his  house  lay  hidden.  The 
path  was  too  narrow  for  him.  He  grazed  the 
rugged  shafts  as  he  went. 

"Drunk,"  said  Wallace,  haughtily. 

"Not  a  bit!"  retorted  Godbolt. 

"No,"  Tisdale  echoed.  "He  gave  me  the 
creeps." 


162  THE    FAR    CRY 

Indeed,  as  they  watched  that  lank  figure  dwindle 
through  inter-crossing  palms,  they  felt  the  same 
unknown  discomfort.  So  might  a  great  gray 
spider  fade  into  his  waiting  cobweb;  so  might  a 
sorcerer  go  home. 

"Well,  it  beats  me!"  they  murmured,  one  to 
another.  "What's  the  old  man  got  up  his  sleeve? 
— Yes,  what?  Humph! — Doesn't  love  us  a  bit, 
now,  does  he?" 

It  was  Wallace  who  recovered,  and  outdid  his 
nature. 

"I'm  going  to  eat,"  he  said,  and  sat  down  at 
table.  "To-morrow?  Your  friend's  talking  Omar 
Key-West  again,  Sainty.  Who  cares  about  to- 
morrow? I'm  going  to  eat  and  be  merry.  Come 
on.    Mango  Fool  is  Mango  Fool !" 

The  other  two  laughed.  Godbolt  laughed  for 
friendship's  sake;  Tisdale  because  at  that  instant 
he  saw  not  only  his  giddy  self  but  his  careful  part- 
ner changing,  succumbing  to  this  plain  sailor  who 
had  no  thought  of  mastery.  Would  old  Rob  have 
spoken  thus,  half  a  year  ago? 

They  ate  the  Mango  Fool  as  it  should  be  eaten, 
spoonful  by  Epicurean  spoonful.  The  platform 
had  a  pleasant  perch,  between  green  woods  and 
green  water.  They  saw  the  lagoon,  close  below, 
as  a  pair  of  crystal  arcs;  the  arc  inshore  a  pale 


SECOND    WHITE    BIRD     163 

receptacle  for  coral  buds  that  shimmered  in  crink- 
ling yellow;  the  arc  beyond,  a  deeper  light  for 
clouds  to  float  in.  The  two  fisher-gulls  went 
swerving  and  crying  over  this  parti-colored  cove, 
now  almost  under  the  bamboo  rail,  now  far  aloft. 

Suddenly  and  quietly  the  kilted  steward  came, 
took  off  their  empty  glasses,  and  brought,  after 
some  delay,  a  platter  with  two  great  fishes  that 
steamed  under  heaps  of  rice.  The  steward  left 
this  grudgingly,  and  departed.  A  savory,  tempt- 
ing course,  it  had  come  hot  from  the  kettle  on  the 
beach. 

Godbolt  divided  one  of  the  fishes,  and  served 
the  plates.  The  rising  vapor  smelled  like  an  in- 
vitation.   The  men  were  about  to  eat. 

"Tuan,  tida!"  came  a  loud  whisper.  "Tida — 
ikan!" 

They  turned  in  their  chairs  with  a  start,  for 
the  whisper  seemed  to  spring  out  of  the  ground. 
They  saw,  level  with  the  platform  floor,  a  shock 
of  coarse,  black  hair,  a  dark,  sunken  face,  and 
brown  eyes  blinking  at  them  in  terror.  Satrap,  the 
boatman-cook,  had  shinned  up  one  of  the  palms, 
and  like  a  tree-toad,  clung  hand  and  foot  to  the 
"monkey-ladder"  notches  in  its  trunk. 

"No,  no!"  he  whispered  volubly.  "The  fish! 
No,  no!" 


164  THE    FAR    CRY 

Unhooking  one  hand,  he  made  a  frantic  motion 
toward  the  table. 

"Fish?  What  about  it?"  The  friends  stared 
from  him  to  their  platter,  and  back  again. 
"What's  wrong?" 

The  starveling  turned  his  head,  and  in  palpable 
anguish  looked  over  his  bony  shoulder  at  the  trees 
which  hid  his  master's  house.  He  hung  thus,  peer- 
ing, for  an  instant;  then,  with  a  sign  that  the  men 
should  wait,  he  went  nimbly  down  the  ladder- 
notches,  dropped  into  the  sand,  looked  upward — 
as  if  to  entreat  their  utmost  caution — ran  to  the 
basket  in  his  boat,  and  lifted  out  the  big  silver  fish 
remaining  there. 

"O  Sir!"  he  whispered  up  to  Godbolt.  "See! 
It  is  the  same  you  are  eating.    Watch  now !" 

Holding  the  fish  by  the  gills,  Satrap  drew  from 
his  belt  a  bloody  case-knife.  He  pointed  this 
heavenward,  but  aslant.  The  act  seemed  ritual,  or 
mere  nonsense,  until,  following  the  direction  of 
his  blade,  the  three  men  saw  that  he  was  pointing 
at  the  gulls,  where  they  flew. 

"Itu!"  grunted  Satrap,  "lyah!"  And  with  a 
quick  downward  slice,  he  ripped  the  silver  belly 
of  the  fish.  Back  went  his  knife  into  sheath.  Sa- 
trap grinned  morosely,  and  held  up  a  handful  of 
red  entrails. 


SECOND    WHITE    BIRD     165 

"Iyah!"  He  dropped  the  fish,  stepped  forth 
into  the  water,  and  waved  his  skinny  arms.  The 
two  gulls  dropped  from  the  blue,  to  come  racing; 
and  as  they  came,  Satrap  flung  the  entrails  to  meet 
them. 

Hardly  the  red  offal  had  struck  water,  when  the 
foremost  gull  was  on  it,  pouncing  with  rigid  legs. 
His  beak  flashed  scarlet  as  he  dodged  his  yelling 
mate,  and  rose,  to  gulp  the  morsel  on  the  wing. 

The  tiffin  party  stood  by  their  platform  rail- 
ing, and  watched.  Satrap,  they  thought,  had  given 
them  a  simple-minded  entertainment,  after  all. 
They  would  have  drawn  in  their  chairs,  had  he 
not  cried  up  to  them,  earnestly.  Knee-deep  in  the 
water,  he  still  pointed  aloft. 

"Yes,  yes!"  They  requited  him  with  careless 
nods.    "Very  good!" 

But  the  frail  bronze  manikin  was  not  content. 
He  gave  another  guarded  cry.  As  he  did  so,  upon 
his  pantomime  was  clapped  a  vivid  sequel. 

Down  through  the  sunlight,  heavily,  zig-zagging 
like  a  boy's  torn  kite,  fell  that  gull  which  had  won 
the  entrails.  Its  big  white  body  splashed  into  the 
shoal,  its  pinions  flogged  the  water  weakly,  then 
collapsed;  and  there,  before  one  might  compre- 
hend, it  floated  as  a  lump  of  dead  feathers,  the 
centre  for  widening  ripples. 


166  THE    FAR    CRY 

"Mata,  mata!"  The  little  Bugi  man  ashore 
took  from  the  sand  his  mangled  fish,  and  flapping 
it  for  emphasis,  jerked  his  chin  repeatedly  after 
the  floating  bird.  He  rolled  his  eyes  at  the  men 
above  him.    "Dead,  dead!'* 

His  part  was  done.  They  understood,  next  mo- 
ment, with  an  ugly  thrill. 

"Poison." 

All  three  framed  the  word  upon  their  lips,  but 
none  could  tell  who  uttered  it  aloud.  In  stupe- 
faction, each  man  bolt  upright  behind  his  chair, 
they  looked  at  the  platter  as  though  waiting  for 
it  to  move. 

"Poison."  They  heard  one  another  mumbling, 
in  a  kind  of  trance,  without  heed,  without  belief. 
"Same  fish.  Bulletin  board  on  Fraye's  jetty, 
remember?  'Unadvisedly':  that's  so,  boys; 
shouldn't  be  eat  unadvisedly.    Same  fish." 

Death  lay  in  the  platter,  covered  with  snowy 
rice.  The  word  lost  all  its  triteness,  the  common 
dish  became  a  wonder,  a  vessel  of  wrath  and 
trembling.  Death  lay  there  so  near,  so  quiet,  so 
homely.  Woods  and  sea-lake  remained  the  same 
— a  passion  of  color  mirrored  in  tranquility,  like 
the  poet's  thought;  palm-leaves  pattered  crisply 
overhead;  flecks  of  light  maintained  a  flittermouse 
dance  across  the  table-cloth;  and  because  of  what 


SECOND    WHITE    BIRD     167 

lay  there,  all  these  things  had  gone  pale,  and  spoilt, 
and  hollow.  The  distemper  of  mortality  infected 
them.  All  these  things,  and  all  else,  might  soon 
have  been  as  nothing,  forever. 

The  three  men  looked  up,  each  to  read  this  in  a 
pair  of  thoughtful  faces. 

Alone,  the  live  gull  hovered  round  its  drifting 
fellow,  with  a  clamor  of  surprise. 


CHAPTER    XIII 


ACROSS    COUNTRY 


A  MISS  was  good  as  a  mile;  but  so  it  did  not 
seem  at  the  first  chill,  when  escape  from  death  was 
a  new  and  solemn  thing,  at  which  the  heart  still 
bounded.  Sunshine,  the  stream  of  days  flowing 
on,  were  enough  to  be  grateful  for;  and  the  men 
had  little  room,  at  the  moment,  for  more  than  a 
long,  awkward  silence  which  meant  gratitude. 

They  moved  and  spoke  at  last,  each  according 
to  his  private  thought. 

"That  makes  two,"  said  Tisdale,  pointing  at  the 
dead  gull  on  the  water  below.  "White  birds  are 
lucky  for  us.  There  goes  the  second,  poor  thing, 
that  came  along  to  help  us." 

Walter  looked  up  from  the  platter. 

"Poison?"  he  sneered,  his  honest  brown  face 
full  of  heat.  "By  George,  I'll  tend  to  Oliver 
Mace!    You  wait " 

And  doubling  his  fists,  he  would  have  run 
ashore  from  the  platform. 

168 


ACROSS    COUNTRY  169 

Godbolt  snatched  him  by  the  elbow,  and  held 
firm. 

"Wait,  Robin !  No,  ye  don't ;  I  got  you !"  The 
captain  was  captain  still,  not  to  be  shaken  off. 
"Quit  your  wrestling,  man  I  L00&  here.  If  you 
let  fly  one  word  to  Mace,  he'll  skin  our  friend 
Satrap  alive,  down  there.  God  knows  the  Bugi 
can't  afford  to  lose  none  off  his  bones.  He  warned 
us.    Don't  give  him  away.    Hold  still,  ye  Turk!" 

Thus,  continuing  to  live,  they  heard  and  felt  the 
obligation  of  life.  It  was  not  enough  to  have 
passed  the  bitterness  of  death ;  they  must  pick  up 
their  wits,  go  forward,  and  act. 

Tisdale  acted,  by  crumpling  a  little  rice  and  fish 
into  the  plates,  and  flinging  the  rest  with  a  great 
spatter  cleanly  into  the  lagoon. 

"There!"  said  he. 

Godbolt  approved. 

"Good!  That's  good.  Mace'll  think  we  ate 
his  chow.    Come  on,  we'll  do  a  sneak  for  home." 

They  gave  the  shoreward  palms  a  careful 
watching.  No  one  was  there;  and  so  far  as  sight 
and  earshot  could  penetrate  among  the  leaning 
trunks,  no  movement  came  from  Mace's  com- 
pound. Brown  soil,  brown  pillars,  monotonous 
green  foliage — all  Mango  Island  took  a  noon 
siesta. 


i7o  THEFARCRY 

"Come  on.    Easy,  now!" 

Wrong-doers  could  not  move  more  easily.  One 
by  one,  the  three  men  straddled  the  port  railing, 
clutched  the  nearest  "monkey-ladder,"  and  so 
dropped  beside  the  cauldron  and  the  sweet-smell- 
ing embers  on  the  beach. 

Satrap,  drying  his  cotton  leg-wear  by  these  em- 
bers, hardly  vouchsafed  a  look.  All  his  energy 
had  gone  into  the  late  pantomime;  but  though  it 
had  been  successful,  though  it  kept  three  Strang-, 
ers  alive  and  they  crowded  round  him  whispering 
praises,  he  did  not  appear  to  care.  Dull  Malayan 
eyes  hid  his  motive;  the  dull,  perverse  Malayan 
heart  kept  its  own  counsel  barred  and  locked  away 
under  the  grating  of  a  sunken  breastbone  and  ca- 
daverous ribs. 

"Here,  take  it!"  Wallace  and  Tisdale  offered 
him  what  coins  they  found  in  their  pockets.  "Take 
'em !    It's  little  enough." 

Satrap  hitched  his  trousers,  wriggled  his  toes 
under  the  pot  where  he  had  been  cooking  death 
for  these  men.  He  would  have  none  of  their 
money,  none  of  their  thanks. 

"Here!"  said  Godbolt,  impounding  the  handful 
of  silver.     "Take  it,  ye  Griddle-Iron!" 

The  native  glanced  at  him  slyly,  reached  out, 
and  like  a  nervous  ape,  pilfered  the  coins  out  of 


ACROSS    COUNTRY  171 

the  sailor's  palm.  He  studied  curiously  the  face 
of  a  peso,  stamped  with  Mayon's  broken  moun- 
tain-top ;  then  slipped  the  whole  tribute  quietly  into 
his  belt-purse. 

"What  made  you  do  it  for  us?  Tuan  Mace 
would  fix  you,  if  he  overheard !  What  possessed 
you,  old  Palsy-Cage?" 

And  then  a  remarkable  thing  happened.  The 
belt-purse  had  two  compartments :  from  the  inner 
one,  Satrap  drew  carefully  some  fragile  object. 
He  grinned,  showing  red  and  black  teeth  filed  to 
the  gums.  What  he  held  in  his  fingers,  was  the 
half-burnt  stump  of  a  cheroot — the  cheroot  God- 
bolt  had  given  him  on  landing.  "Tembako"  he 
said,  and  grinned  again.  Here  was  the  cost  of 
friendship :  this,  with  a  chance  word  or  so  of  kind- 
ness, had  been  the  cheap  ransom  for  three  lives. 

"By  the  Lord  Harry  I"  boomed  Godbolt.  "No 
more'n  that?     And  I'd  clean  forgot  it!" 

The  little  Bugi  put  away  his  burnt  stump,  care- 
fully as  before.  He  cocked  a  startled  eye  at  the 
impending  bank,  to  make  sure  that  nobody  saw 
his  doings;  then,  beckoning,  he  dodged  under  the 
bamboo  girders  of  the  platform,  and  began  to  lead 
the  way.  His  debtors  copied  him  in  every  move- 
ment, hugging  the  foot  of  the  sandy  crag,  and 
stooping  under  the  lower  palms;  for  they  had  no 


172  THE    FAR    CRY 

desire,  now,  to  let  Mace  know  the  means  of  their 
deliverance.  Thus,  for  a  hundred  yards,  they 
crept  safely  along  the  stifling  hidden  way  of  the 
beach,  until,  as  they  rounded  a  point,  Satrap 
halted.  He  gave  a  vigorous  nod,  to  signify  their 
course  lay  plain  before  them,  and  then,  turning 
without  a  word,  bolted  for  his  kettle  and  his  post 
of  duty. 

He  had  brought  them  to  the  end  of  his  mas- 
ter's domain.  Here  Mango  Island  dipped  its 
coral  boundary  under  water — the  water  of  that  lit- 
tle strait,  or  channel,  which  divided  Mace  from  his 
neighbors.  The  tide  was  at  young  flood,  the  chan- 
nel a  clear  green  brook,  scarce  ankle-deep;  so  that 
the  fugitives,  rolling  up  their  trousers  and  carry- 
ing their  pumps,  waded  across  through  calcareous, 
fern-like  weeds,  among  sidelong  crabs  and  terri- 
fied gray  mullet.  On  their  left  hand,  as  they 
waded,  the  dead  white  gull  went  drifting  for  com- 
pany. 

Safe  upon  Fraye's  island,  they  shook  the  water 
off  their  feet,  as  though  apostolically  crying  quits; 
but  Tisdale,  more  impudent,  made  a  long  nose  at 
the  opposite  shore. 

"So  sorry  not  to  stay!"  he  called.  "So  sorry, 
dear  old  Oliver!" 

Fraye's  territory,  the  mainland  of  the  atoll, 


ACROSS    COUNTRY  173 

proved  greater  than  they  thought.  A  faint  trail, 
much  impeded  by  wind-fallen  banana  stalks  and 
wild  kati  papaya,  brought  them  through  mile  after 
mile  of  woodland,  rich  and  dense,  covering  a 
brown  earth — that  guano  and  dead-leaf  earth 
which  crowns  with  magical  fertility  the  aged  ocean- 
work  of  coral.  Their  homeward  journey  was 
longer,  more  circuitous,  than  by  the  beach;  but  it 
was  cool,  shady,  a  tangled  country  to  explore. 
Now  they  crashed  among  thickets,  where  tame 
birds — weavers,  thrush,  and  green  ground-pigeons 
— hardly  rose  from  the  boughs.  Now  they  broke 
through  the  honey-combed  soil  where  land-crabs — 
brown  and  varnished,  like  Caran  D'Ache  toys 
made  to  imitate  their  sea  cousins  by  wooden- 
jointed  art — spanned  away  into  the  bush  on  clink- 
ing pincers.  Once  in  a  while  the  barrier  surf  fired 
off  its  heaviest  cannonade  far  to  the  right;  and  ex- 
cept for  this,  the  forest  might  have  stood  leagues 
inland,  not  the  middle  part  in  a  sickle-bladed  isle, 
but  the  very  core  of  a  continent.  The  feeling  of 
seclusion  grew  deeper,  in  fact,  as  the  men  ad- 
vanced. Their  trail  deserted  them  from  time  to 
time;  and  what  with  finding  it  again,  what  with 
wandering  after  this  glimpse  of  a  strange  bird,  or 
that  glimpse  of  a  strange  fruit-tree,  they  found 
the  afternoon  sped.    The  sun,  going  down  behind 


i74  THEFARCRY 

them,  shot  with  golden  light  the  topmost  leaves 
of  guava  shrub  and  tamarind;  evening  drew  over 
them  in  the  wilderness;  so  that  when  they  heard 
a  quiet  tinkle  of  bells,  near  but  scattered  among 
the  trees,  they  were  glad  to  think  the  sound  might 
come  from  flocks  in  open  pasture,  within  reach  of 
human  kind. 

Suddenly  a  ram  dashed  off  before  them  through 
the  undergrowth;  bright  spaces  glimmered  in  front 
of  him;  and  soon  after,  they  came  out  into  a  broad 
green  field,  streaming  with  long  shadows. 

It  was  here  the  bells  tinkled,  for  sheep  were 
grazing — a  few  buff-coated  New  Zealanders,  crop- 
ping coarse  grass  here  and  there  down  the  undula- 
tions of*  a  great  clearing.  Specks  of  red  shone 
among  them  in  the  sunset.  The  place  was  not  only 
a  sheep  walk,  but  a  golf  course  marked  with  flags. 
At  the  edge  of  the  shadows,  a  young  woman,  bare- 
headed, all  in  white,  was  bending  over  a  little 
white  ball.  She  moved.  The  ball  rolled  neatly 
across  the  green,  and  disappeared. 

"Good  evening !"  Katherine  Fraye  rose  and 
waved  her  iron.  "Glad  you  saw  that !  My  shots 
weren't  all  so  good." 

A  shy  brown  urchin,  pot-bellied,  in  sarong  and 
skull-cap,  was  holding  her  leathern  bag  and  a  red 
pennant  on  a  bamboo.      He  stared  at  these  three 


ACROSS    COUNTRY  175 

tall  gentlemen  of  the  silver  buttons,  before  taking 
the  putter  from  his  mistress  and  sliding  it  down 
among  the  other  clubs. 

"You  had  a  pleasant  day?"  She  walked  to 
meet  them,  swinging  her  helmet  by  the  chin-strap. 
She  was  young,  light-footed,  flushed  with  exercise, 
a  figure  of  liberty;  but  round  her  waist,  they  noted, 
she  wore  a  black  belt  and  a  sagging  holster  in 
which  a  pistol  hung.     "You  enjoyed  yourselves  ?" 

They  laughed,  and  lied  without  premeditation. 

"Oh,  very  much,"  replied  Tisdale. 

They  went  with  her  down  the  field,  talking  as 
if  nothing  had  happened  that  day.  Whether  she 
understood  or  not,  the  girl  accepted  their  fiction. 

"And  do  you  always  play  here?"  Wallace  was 
saying.     "Every  afternoon?" 

Katherine  patted  her  bright  hair,  restoring  with 
little  touches  that  vulnerable  part  of  beauty.  The 
men  saw,  and  let  the  action  pass;  they  admired, 
rather,  to  have  her  join  their  fellowship  almost  as 
though  she  were  a  fourth  man.  Few  women  could 
have  done  so :  she  did,  without  second  thought. 

"No,  not  every,"  she  answered.  "To-day  the 
Grandpater's  better.  Your  coming  has  cheered 
him  up.  And  then,  the  village  has  worked  faster. 
You  braced  them,  too,  poor  creatures.  Every  man 
Jack  fetched  in  his  four  hundred  nuts  on  time.    So 


176  THE    FAR    CRY 

I  got  away  early."  She  looked  up,  forestalling 
their  questions.  "Oh,  yes,  I  see  to  the  copra  now- 
adays. Somebody  must.  We  ship  twenty-five 
thousand  piculs  a  year,  you  know.  And  there's 
'kudu  bark,  about  thirty  guineas  the  ton,  and  beche 
de  mer  for  little  pig-tailed  epicures  in  Canton.  .  . 
But  that's  all  shop.  No:  I  golf  only  when  I  can; 
and  to-day  because  grandfather  made  me  come 
out." 

Godbolt  brought  the  party  to  a  standstill. 

"You  mean,  you  oversee  all  that?"  he  de- 
manded. His  black  eyes  were  snapping.  He 
pointed  at  the  girl's  waist.  "And  you  always  carry 
a  gun?" 

Miss  Fraye  was  suddenly  and  greatly  abashed. 

"Oh,  no!"  She  unbuckled  her  weapon,  and 
crowded  it  into  the  caddy's  bag.  "That  was  to — 
to  shoot  sea-hawks  with.    That  was  for  fun." 

However  well  women  are  supposed  to  fib,  not 
one  of  her  escort  believed  her.  Hawks,  indeed! 
Godbolt  himself  took  pity  on  her. 

"What's  your  game  o'  golf?"  he  inquired,  with 
his  own  rough  tact.  "I've  seen  pictures  of  it,  but 
never  in  the  open  air  before.  How  might  she  go, 
Miss  Fraye?" 

The  girl  gave  a  mischievous  look  at  Wallace 
and  Tisdale. 


ACROSS    COUNTRY  177 

"Try  it,  Captain,"  she  said;  and  to  the  little 
boy — "Drop  a  ball  for  this  gentleman,  Krian." 

The  caddy,  consumed  with  eagerness,  did  as  he 
was  bid. 

"And  you  whack  it  with  this?"  Godbolt  drew 
by  chance  a  brassy,  and  along  with  it,  the  girl's 
belt  and  pistol,  which  tumbled  out  on  the  ground. 
"Stand  clear,  all  hands!" 

He  addressed  the  ball  after  a  fashion,  drew 
back  his  mighty  arms,  and  smote. 

A  scalp  of  dusty  grass  flew,  and  lighted  per- 
haps a  rod  away.  The  ball  trundled  not  much  far- 
ther. As  for  the  club,  it  shivered  into  three  pieces, 
and  left  the  splintered  stock  in  Godbolt' s  fist,  like 
a  tool  in  the  hand  of  Kwasind.  The  man  was  not 
built  for  anything  small  and  clever. 

Everybody  laughed.  Even  the  youngster  for- 
got his  decorum,  and  tittered.  Godbolt  picked  up 
the  fragments  ruefully;  but  seeing  how  the  girl 
shared  and  led  the  general  merriment,  he  also 
broke  out  in  a  peal  of  boyish  laughter. 

"Well,  there!  Poetry  o'  motion,  that  was!" 
He  stowed  the  pieces  in  the  caddy's  bag.  "I'll 
mend  your  little  whipstick  for  you."  As  he  spoke, 
he  took  from  the  grass  her  belt  and  holster. 
"Playing  with  this" — he  patted  the  revolver-butt 
— "playing  with  this,  now,  a  man  might  hit !" 


i78  THE    FAR    CRY 

Her  challenge  came  at  a  flash. 

'The  ball  yonder?    Could  you  hit  that?" 

Godbolt  drew  the  weapon — a  regulation  Web- 
ley — measured  its  dark  symmetry  with  a  scholar's 
eye,  and  glanced  at  the  golf-ball  ahead. 

"Sure!" 

He  spoke  cheerfully.  Katherine  gave  him  no 
time  to  weaken. 

uDo  it!"  she  commanded.  "I  hate  people  who 
boast.    Do  it  now,  quickly,  or  else  .  .  .  ' 

Whatever  her  threat  might  have  been,  the  re- 
volver cut  it  short.  Godbolt  had  raised  his  arm 
and  fired  before  they  saw  he  was  aiming.  A  long 
scar  ripped  the  grass;  two  white  chips  flew  into 
the  sunlight;  and  there  was  no  more  golf-ball. 
The  nearer  sheep  cut  an  absurd  caper,  and  ran 
bundling  away  with  a  flurry  and  jingle  of  bells. 

Katherine  clapped  her  hands. 

"Oh !"  she  cried.    "You  can!" 

The  sailor  had  in  fact  retrieved  his  reputation. 
Little  Krian,  the  caddy,  wondered  at  him  with 
round,  solemn  eyes.  Wallace  and  Tisdale  laughed 
no  longer. 

"If  that's  your  way  of  hitting,"  declared  the 
girl,  "I  like  it  better  than  mine." 

Godbolt  shook  his  head. 

"No.    Here,  sonny."    He  flicked  out  the  empty 


ACROSS    COUNTRY  179 

cartridge,  stuffed  the  Webley  back  into  its  holster, 
and  gave  it  to  the  boy.  "Good  gun  there,  Miss 
Fraye.  No :  your  way's  better,  with  the  whip- 
stick." 

Something  in  his  tone  made  her  look  up  quickly. 

"Golf  better?  It's  a  silly  old  game,  croquet  by 
the  acre !"  she  cried.  "Your  shooting — why,  that's 
an  accomplishment.  It's  beautiful.  Robin  Hood, 
in  the  story  book,  couldn't  do  what  you  have 
done." 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

"It's  no  good,"  he  rejoined,  staring  down  the 
long,  bright  pasture.  "A  trick  that  don't  help  a 
living  soul.  It's  no  good.  Unless  you  wanted  to 
kill  a  man." 

He  spoke  with  a  regret  half  whimsical,  half 
genuine. 

"But,"  said  Katherine,  smiling,  "suppose  you 
wanted?" 

He  looked  down  at  her,  suddenly,  with  great 
good  humor. 

"Why,  there!"  he  exclaimed.  "Suppose  I 
wanted.  By  Joe,  I  wouldn't  have  the  courage! 
And  that's  a  fact." 

So,  loitering  in  a  pleasant  coolness,  they  fol- 
lowed their  shadows  over  the  sunset  field,  home- 
ward, to  the  vesper  tinkling  of  bells,  the  bleating 


1 80  THE    FAR    CRY 

of  a  scattered  flock,  and  that  unending,  all  per- 
vasive sigh — like  a  slow  forest  wind  sifting 
through  pine  needles — which  was  the  mournful 
voice  of  the  sea. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

ASHES 

At  the  corner  of  Fraye's  bungalow,  Katherine 
took  her  leave. 

"I  must  go  stimulate  Yee  Poy  toward  his  din- 
ner," she  said;  and  before  disappearing  round  a 
honeysuckle  bush — "Won't  you  please  tell  grand- 
father anything  you  care  to  tell  him,  about — about 
where  you  spent  your  day?" 

The  honeysuckle  swayed  in  the  dusk.  And  they, 
captain  and  owners  of  the  Nantwich  Number  Two 
boat,  were  left  to  give  an  account  of  themselves. 

"Arthur,"  commanded  Godbolt,  uyou  got  to  do 
the  talking." 

They  skirted  the  front  veranda,  went  up,  and 
entered  the  lamp-light  in  the  main  room. 

Thomas  Masterman  Fraye  sat  playing  chess  at 
a  mahogany  table.  He  was  alone.  Dressed  in 
white  homespun,  made  gay  by  a  red  cravat,  he 
bent  over  his  battlefield  of  crowded  pawns  and 

181 


182  THE    FAR    CRY 

pieces,  humming  as  he  weighed  their  chances.  It 
was  a  kindly  picture  that  he  presented,  so  neat  and 
plump,  his  cheeks  so  ruddy,  his  moustache  and 
hair  frosted  with  so  many  years.  He  moved  a 
boxwood  knight,  and  took  great  pleasure  in  the 
outcome,  for  he  snapped  his  fingers  and  whistled  a 
few  bars  of  some  lively  jig.  Jack  Horner  with 
his  plum  could  not  have  been  more  juvenile;  in- 
deed, for  the  moment  he  seemed  like  a  jolly, 
rotund  little  schoolboy  at  a  masquerade,  who  had 
forgotten  that  he  must  act  the  grandfather.  His 
black  eyes  twinkled  as  he  glanced  up,  nodding. 

"Well,  young  men?  Have  you  slept  the  clock 
round?" 

His  three  visitors  laid  aside  their  helmets,  and 
took  the  chairs  to  which  he  beckoned  them,  round 
the  chess  board.  Evening  was  now  at  that  most 
home-like  hour,  the  first  hour  of  lamp-light;  and 
while  a  sapphire  glow  from  the  lagoon  faded  in 
the  western  windows,  this  comfortable  room,  frag- 
rant with  camphor-wood,  was  like  an  old  familiar 
place. 

"No,  Mr.  Fraye,"  replied  Tisdale.  "We  slept 
wonderfully,  thank  you ;  but  to-day — we  went  vis- 
iting." 

The  knight  had  captured  an  ebony  pawn.  Mr. 
Fraye  dropped  this  quietly  into  the  box. 


ASHES  183 

"Have  you?"  His  voice  was  bland,  but  in  his 
eye  they  caught  a  sparkle  of  humor.  "Visiting  al- 
ready ?    My  neighbor,  I  suppose  ?" 

Tisdale  copied  his  manner  precisely. 

"Your  neighbor,  Mr.  Oliver  Mace,  of  Mango 
Island." 

Fraye  chuckled. 

"True,"  said  he.  "Of  Mango  Island  at  pres- 
ent. Thane  of  Cawdor,  now ;  but  who  knows  what 
title  may  follow?    How  did  you  get  on?" 

"Not  at  all,  sir." 

The  little  chess-player  tugged  his  white  mous- 
tache. 

"Not  at  all?"  he  echoed,  in  the  mildest  ironical 
wonder.  "That  seems  a  pity.  Did  Mace  inquire 
for  me,  by  the  way?" 

Tisdale  kept  up  the  diplomacy. 

"Oh,  yes;  inquired  with  great  solicitude,"  he 
began. 

But  at  this  point  Godbolt,  swollen  with  indigna- 
tion, could  contain  no  longer. 

"Called  you  pet  names !"  he  burst  out.  "Called 
you  'dear  old  Tom' !" 

The  spark  fell  into  the  powder  with  a  venge- 
ance. 

"Did  he,  though!"  cried  Fraye,  ruffling  and 
reddening.     He  sat  up,  a  little  bundle  of  hot  tern- 


1 84  THE    FAR    CRY 

per.     "The  damned  impudent !"     And  he 

struck  the  table,  so  that  the  weighted  chessmen 
hopped  upon  it.  "Mace  calling  me  pet  names,  by 
Heaven I" 

It  was  no  mere  pride,  but  the  passion  of  a  just 
man  suffering  outrage. 

"Mace!  And  I  forbade  him  the  house,  this 
twelvemonth." 

The  gust  blew  over.  Mr.  Fraye's  hands  were 
trembling,  but  he  folded  them  in  his  lap. 

"Gentlemen,  you  see  I  despise  the  fellow,"  he 
continued,  quietly.  "You  see  that:  I  dare  say  it's 
as  well  you  should.  Let  me  tell  you  why;  or  try 
to." 

He  pointed  past  them,  toward  the  windows  and 
the  darkling  blue  of  the  water,  barred  with  slender 
trees. 

"Fifty-one  years  ago,  I  saw  that  lagoon  for  the 
first  time,  as  you  saw  it  yesterday.  We  came  in 
through  the  channel,  my  father  and  I.  We  found 
wild  savages  here,  a  poor,  spiritless  handful, 
scared,  and  wearing  leaves — 'unum  folium  ante, 
retro  alium,'  like  the  Jesuits'  report  of  old  Hai- 
nan. My  father,  Sir  Charles  Fraye,  was  cruising 
for  pleasure.  He  died  here.  I  was  younger 
son.  'Tom/  said  he — he  died  under  a  big  palm, 
on  the  very  place  where  we  sit  to-night — 'Torn, 


ASHES  185 

you're  a  fat  little  comedy  imp.  If  you  go  home 
to  England,  the  devil  is  sure  to  grip  you,  with  an 
armchair  and  a  bottle  of  port.  Stay  here  and  work 
out  your  weight/  So  father  died,  and  left  his 
ashes  here.  I  mean  ashes.  We  burn  on  the  island, 
we  don't  bury.  Dig  a  few  feet,  and  you'll  under- 
stand why.    Land-crabs,  coral  worms.   ..." 

Mr.  Fraye  had  forgotten  his  wrath.  He  was 
looking  down  at  the  chess-board,  which  might  have 
been  a  deep  pool  full  of  memories.  His  voice, 
also,  came  from  the  distant  inward  spaces  of  the 
past. 

"I  stayed,"  he  went  on,  smiling.  "I  had  sense 
enough  to  go  home,  first,  and  marry  Kate,  and 
bring  her  here,  all  on  a  risk  ten  thousand  miles 
wide.  Thank  God  we  took  it.  The  children  grew 
up,  Frank  and  George  and  Amy,  the  little  girl. 
She  lies  with  her  mother,  on  this  island.  Ashes, 
under  the  big  rock.  George  went  down  at  sea, 
with  the  old  family  schooner.  Then  'twas  Frank 
and  I  that  stayed,  and  worked  out  our  weight,  to 
the  muscle,  by  Jove !  And  Frank  married,  and  this 
pretty  little  child  Katherine  was  born — named 
after  my  Katherine,  you  see;  but  before  she  came 
her  father  was  dead,  and  her  mother  soon  after,  of 
grief.  Yes,  my  boys.  The  Lanao  pirates  had 
happened  in,  feeling  cocky,  with  a  big  prau  mount- 


186  THEFARCRY 

ing  brass  swivel  guns;  and  we — we  two,  my  son 
Frank  and  I,  with  the  only  dozen  men  of  spirit  in 
the  village — we  beat  them  off,  smashed  'em  on  the 
beach,  shot  'em  in  their  boat,  picked  off  steersman 
after  steersman  as  they  rowed  away  howling,  and 
sunk  them,  at  last,  in  that  channel  you  came  in 
through  yonder,  so  that  the  water  was  black  with 
heads !  And  what  came  ashore,  a  few,  I  took  and 
tamed.  Frank  got  a  bullet,  though,  on  the  point 
by  the  channel  mouth.  He  died  there  among  the 
seaweed.  What  do  you  think  he  said?  'I'm 
sorry,'  says  Frank,  'to  leave  you  all  the  work.' 
That  was  my  dear  son  Frank,  this  girl's  father: 
ashes,  like  the  rest  now.  Ashes!  But  you'll  ad- 
mit the  family  had  mettle,  once?" 

His  hearers  answered  him  with  shining  eyes. 

"More  than  once!"  Tisdale  murmured,  point- 
ing at  a  small  glazed  coat  of  arms  that  hung  on 
the  wall  cloth.  Azure,  it  read,  three  mullets  ar- 
gent— silver  rowels  on  a  blue  field — with  the  cant- 
ing motto — "Fyrst  in  Fraye." 

The  old  man  looked  at  them  sadly. 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  that,"  he  said.  "1  was 
thinking  of  Walter.  Katherine's  brother,  my 
grandson,  Walter.  I  forgot  to  mention  him!  I 
sent  him  home  to  college — my  college,  and  my 
father's;  it's  a  good  old  nest  of  buildings,  too;  but 


ASHES  187 

Walter  is  .  .  .  different.  I  wonder  about  the 
mettle.  The  mettle !    The  fire  in  the  ashes  .   .  .  " 

He  stared  once  more  among  his  chess  men. 

"The  island's  prosperous,"  he  declared,  as  if 
to  himself.  "Our  natives  do  well,  all  of  them. 
Slaves  that  rowed  in  the  pirates'  prau;  South  Sea 
men,  the  whalers  kidnapped,  that  slipped  over- 
board and  swam  ashore  at  night;  Mace's  riff-raff, 
such  as  could  stomach  him  no  longer;  sick  fore- 
mast hands — they  and  their  children  all  grew  rich 
with  us.  Weak,  broken-hearted,  homesick  natives 
from  everywhere;  whoever  came,  has  done  well. 
Riches,  we  can  give;  but  not  courage.  You  saw, 
last  night,  how  they  ran  away.  Grateful,  oh,  yes ! 
They  love  us  to  any  point  short  of  fighting!" 

The  three  friends  waited  for  his  narrative,  and 
said  nothing. 

"Well?  We've  done  more  than  well.  Kather- 
ine  ought  never  to  feel  want!"  he  cried,  regaining, 
for  an  instant,  his  air  of  the  plump  martinet. 
"Katherine — God  bless  the  child — she  stuck  by 
me !  Too  long.  I  beg  her  to  go  home,  live  with 
my  brother's  people,  and  be  happy.  Not  she! 
Katherine  stands  by  the  old  sick  man.  She's 
Frank's  girl.  She's  all  I  have  left  out  of  a  life- 
time, is  Katherine.  And  here  came  this  hell-hawk, 
Oliver  Mace !" 


188  THE    FAR    CRY 

One  to  another,  the  young  men  stole  a  secret 
look  of  comprehension. 

"If  you're  afraid  about  Mace,"  said  Wallace 
the  blunt,  "we'll  promise  you " 

Mr.  Fraye  plucked  up  the  tallest  piece  from  his 
chess  board,  a  white  king,  as  though  to  hurl  it. 

"Afraid!"  he  thundered.  "Afraid  of  Mace? 
No:  of  him,  nor  his  harem,  nor  his  poor  black 
ruffians  behind  him !  Old  age  can  harden  the  ar- 
teries— it's  doing  so  for  me — but  thank  Heaven  it 
can't  make  us  chicken-hearted  altogether.  Afraid 
of  Mace?  Let  me  tell  you  ..."  And  Fraye 
used  the  white  king  to  hammer  his  words  with. 
"Mace  came  here,  eight  years  ago,  when  I  was 
away  taking  the  children  home  to  England.  Mace 
landed,  with  his  slaves  and  his  women,  half-starved 
Siranis,  and  white  females — very  white  and  pale 
and  powdered,  I  assure  you — the  discards  of  sea 
captains.  Don't  be  offended,  Mr.  Godbolt:  every 
trade  has  its  blighters,  even  at  sea.  Well,  a  pretty 
establishment  greeted  me  on  Mango  Island  when 
I  came  out  again;  sweet  neighbors;  and  ever  since, 
this  dog,  this  Oliver  Mace,  with  what  remnant  of 
wit  he  saved  from  liquor  and  sunstroke,  has  tried 
to  oust  us  from  our  island.  Ours?  There  comes 
the  hitch.  The  place  remains  private  ground  to 
this  day;  we  have  no  status." 


ASHES  189 

"No  status?"  repeated  Wallace. 

uNo  flag,"  said  Mr.  Fraye,  impatiently. 
"Under  no  government;  open  to  the  first  who 
takes.  Mace  began  flirting  with  the  Dutch.  We 
addressed  England,  but  England  can  be  the  slow- 
est of  sure  things  on  earth.  That's  why  Walter 
has  gone — against  my  will — to  keep  the  far  end 
of  a  cable  hot,  praying  for  Letters  Patent  and  all 
the  rest.  But  we  prayed  before.  Great  men  are 
deaf.  And  meantime,  where's  the  law?  The 
law's  Mace,  or  it's  me.  There  is  no  other  way  now 
on  this  island.  A  hard  predicament:  take  Mace, 
or  take  me,  for  your  law." 

Wallace  made  a  second  and  a  better  attempt. 

"It's  you,  sir.  I  meant  to  say,  if  you  want  us, 
we  three  take  your  side." 

Fraye  looked  keenly  under  his  white  eyebrows. 

"Come  what  may?" 

"What  may,"  Tisdale  responded,  and  the  others 
gave  a  nod. 

"I  offer  you  nothing  sure,"  objected  the  old 
man.  "Danger  and  trouble.  Mace  has  forty  odd 
men  at  his  back — bad  ones.    Mace  can  bite." 

"We  know  that,"  they  assented.  "He  tried  to 
enlist  us.  Oh,  yes,  sir,  Mace  tried  all  his  might. 
Offered,  sir?  Why,  he  offered  champagne,  and 
then  a  fish — poison." 


r9o  THE    FAR    CRY 

"What's  this?"  cried  the  other,  sternly,  yet  with- 
out surprise.    UA  fish  .   .  .   Poison?" 

Among  them,  they  described  what  manner  of 
tiffin  Mace  had  provided  on  his  platform,  that 
afternoon.  Mr.  Fraye  heard  them  out,  a  quiet  lit- 
tle red-faced  judge  who  sat  balancing  every  word. 

"Walter  was  wrong,"  he  cut  in,  at  the  close. 
"Venom.  I  said  so.  Should  never  have  let  you  go 
there.  That  man  Oliver  Mace — he's  full  of 
venom.  Toad  under  a  stone,  as  I  knew  all  along, 
but  Walter  wouldn't  see  it.  College  turned  the 
boy's  head:  he  contracted  sweetness  and  light 
there,  the  suaviter  fashion  without  t'other  half. 
All  for  nice  persuasion,  is  Walter;  he'd  send  a 
lady-like  piece  of  rhetoric  to  do  a  good  cudgel's  er- 
rand. Persuasion?  You  can't  persuade  born  dev- 
ils, or  socialize  'em  off,  because  a  sub-sub-assistant 
secretary  lived  in  your  staircase  at  college !  No. 
Walter  was  wrong.     This  means  fight,  here  and 


now." 


Silence  followed  his  declaration.  Mr.  Fraye 
put  the  white  king  softly  back  on  the  board.  Had 
he  looked  up,  he  might  have  seen  a  brisk  move- 
ment, a  three-fold  squaring  of  shoulders.  But  he 
hung  his  head. 

"Would  you  fight,"  he  asked  of  nobody,  "would 
you  fight  for  a  few  square  miles  of  copra  planta- 


ASHES  191 

tion,  two  hundred  people  without  a  backbone 
amongst  'em,  and — and  a  handful  or  so  of  ashes  ?" 

His  proposal  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  young 
men  made  a  broken  remonstrance,  and  came  grasp- 
ing at  him  over  his  game  of  chess — three  pairs 
of  hands  all  in  a  jostle  to  catch  hold  of  one.  What 
words  happened  to  fall,  fell  very  gently. 

"There  now,  Mr.  Fraye.  There,  sir,  don't  you 
fret.  We'll  see  to  that  part.  Lord  save  us,  what 
else  have  we  got  for  a  pastime?" 

They  drew  back,  ashamed  of  their  ebullition. 
As  they  did  so,  a  sound  entered  the  room  through 
the  front  window — a  slow  thumping  of  oars,  from 
somewhere  on  the  lagoon.  Tisdale  wheeled  about, 
listened,  then  laughed. 

"Hold  on!"  he  cried.  "I  think  our  friend's 
coming  to  inquire  again." 

He  ran  out  through  the  front  veranda.  Dark- 
ness lay  beyond.  They  heard  his  feet  fly  down 
the  garden  path,  and  ring  hollow  on  the  jetty;  soon 
afterward,  his  voice,  cheery  and  insolent: 

"Good  evening,  Mace !  How  are  you  to-night, 
my  dear  Oliver?" 

The  oars  had  stopped.    There  was  no  reply. 

"Aren't  you  coming  ashore?" 

Lagoon  water  chuckled,  under  the  growing  star- 
light. 


i92  THE    FAR    CRY 

"Do  come!"  Tisdale  was  heard  beseeching. 
"We're  all  here.  Do  come  take  pot-luck,  a  little 
rice — and  fish!" 

Again  the  starry  void  ignored  this  mockery. 
Then  somebody  muttered,  and  the  oars  creaked  in 
their  row-locks,  departing. 

"The  boy  shouldn't  expose  himself,"  said  old 
Fraye.  "Go  call  him  in.  Mace  is  a  dead  shot, 
whatever  else  he  may  be." 

Tisdale's  yellow  head  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
He  was  smiling.  But  before  he  had  rejoined  the 
party  by  the  chess  table,  he  was  quite  serious;  for 
so  were  his  companions. 

"That  was  Mace,"  he  said,  "coming  to  view  the 


remains." 


The  beat  of  hostile  oars  passed  away,  steadily, 
toward  Mango  Island.  In  point  of  dignity,  that 
sullen  boat  was  carrying  off  the  honors  of  the  first 
engagement. 

Mr.  Fraye  began  to  gather  his  playthings  into 
their  box.    Godbolt  stooped  over  and  helped  him. 

"Is  it  only  this  island?"  the  sailor  asked,  in  his 
deep  voice.  "Only  the  island  that  Mace  wants? 
Nothing  else?" 

The  little  man  stared  up  into  Godbolt's  eyes, 
amazed  and  frightened. 

"How  did  you  guess?"  he  whispered.     "How 


ASHES  193 

did  you?  That  reminds  me  of  Frank,  my  son 
Frank:  you  think  too  much,  Captain." 

Godbolt  showed  no  mercy. 

"Is  it?    Only  the  island?" 

Mr.  Fraye  glanced  round  the  room  in  a  sort 
of  terror. 

"Hush!"  he  ordered.  "I  never  said  that.  She 
might  overhear  you.  She  has  quick  ears,  little 
Katherine  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XV 


IN    CHARGE 


Hercules  crossed  the  great  sea  in  an  earthen 
pot,  and  left  an  allegory  for  human  flesh  and 
human  spirit.  Mr.  Fraye  might  urge  the  spirit 
forward,  but  his  vessel  was  too  old,  the  clay  had 
worn  too  fragile ;  and  that  evening,  at  dinner  in  the 
grove,  he  was  forced  to  call  for  his  bearers,  and  be 
carried  in  his  long  chair  to  the  house.  Wallace, 
Tisdale,  and  Godbolt  had  a  private  audience  in 
his  bed-room,  while  he  lay  waiting  to  be  undressed 
by  meek  brown  Anak,  the  lubberly  nurse. 

"My  dear  good  boys,"  he  panted,  looking  up 
with  grateful  eyes.  "If  I  should  go  suddenly  (I 
don't  intend  to,  but  if  I  should),  you  watch  after 
Katherine.  You  understand.  Let  Mace  take  the 
island  if  he  can,  and  the  devil  take  Mace  if  he 
will.  But  keep  her  harmless.  Aaah,  ha!"  he 
sighed,  and  caught  back  his  breath  like  a  staggered 
fighter.  "Keep  Katherine  safe.  Take  her  home, 
should  anything  go  wrong  with  Walter.    I  see  you 

194 


IN    CHARGE  195 

will.    Here's  your  commission.    Read  it,  please." 
He  handed  them  a  long  envelope.     Wallace 
read  out  the  enclosure. 

u  'During  my  present  illness,  I  appoint 
Messrs.  Robert  Wallace,  A.  R.  Tisdale,  and 
Francis  Godbolt  as  my  agents  to  safeguard 
my  interests  and  those  of  my  grand-daughter 
Katherine  Fraye,  here  on  Fraye's  Atoll,  some- 
times known  as  Pulo  Princess.  The  aforesaid 
gentlemen  will  employ  all  justifiable  means  to 
preserve  the  peace  and  good  order  now  exist- 
ing in  this  island.  The  village  has  received 
word,  through  the  headman  and  the  school- 
master, that  until  further  notice,  or  until  the 
arrival  of  Walter  Fraye,  all  orders  given  by 
my  agents  herein  appointed,  shall  be  consid- 
ered as  issuing  from  me. 

Thomas  Masterman  Fraye.'  " 

The  old  man  watched  them  keenly. 

"Do  you  agree  to  that?" 

The  three  men  bowed,  and  one  by  one  took  his 
hand  silently. 

"You  know  my  feeling,"  said  he,  "better  than 
I  can  express  it.  Firearms  on  my  dresser.  Serve 
out,  Anak." 


196  THE    FAR    CRY 

The  barefoot  giant,  looking  frightened,  gave 
them  each  a  black  pistol,  well-oiled,  and  a  packet 
of  ammunition.  They  slipped  these  into  their 
pockets. 

"I  trust  you'll  find  no  need  for — anything  of 
that  kind,"  said  Mr.  Fraye.    "Good  night,  then." 

Authority  had  fallen  upon  them,  the  command 
of  his  island.  They  went  out  from  the  bed-cham- 
ber, deeply  affected.  As  they  passed  through  the 
living-room,  Katherine  stood  by  the  front  door. 

"All's  well?"  she  faltered,  smiling  pitifully. 
"You  left  him  well?" 

Remorse  took  hold  of  them,  to  see  her — young, 
lonely,  bright  as  only  wholesome  youth  appears 
to  wholesome  youth,  so  near  with  her  starry  brown 
eyes,  and  yet  so  unutterably  removed  from  them. 
They  had  laughed  with  her  on  equal  terms,  just 
now  at  the  dinner  table;  her  grandfather  had  al- 
most taken  them  into  the  family  with  her;  and  for 
that  very  reason  here  she  stood  all  the  further 
away,  entrusted  to  them  on  the  pinnacle  of  their 
honor.  She  was  a  girl  with  red  lips  and  throat 
of  gipsy  tan:  she  was  their  ward,  Katherine. 

"All's  well,"  they  stammered.  "He's  only 
tired."  And  they  edged  out  of  doors  in  a  hurry, 
before  they  could  say  too  much.  "Good  night, 
Miss  Fraye.    All's  well." 


IN    CHARGE  197 

Once  in  their  bachelor  quarters,  they  showed  the 
hollowness  of  that  agreeable  fiction,  by  holding  a 
conference  round  Godbolt's  table.  Their  candles 
burned  low,  and  still  the  talk  flowed  on,  in  an  un- 
dertone. They  sat  as  a  Committee  of  Safety — 
three  conspirators,  with  sunburnt  faces  hard  and 
cautious,  ready  to  turn  and  listen  at  any  sound. 

"Here!"  said  Wallace,  when  the  last  candle  be- 
gan to  sputter  in  the  socket.  "Here  are  the  things 
we  have  to  do,  in  order.  Look  sharp,  you  fel- 
lows." And  he  read  the  penciled  minutes  of  their 
meeting. 

"  'First.  Every  night,  beginning  now,  shall  be 
divided  into  three  watches ;  the  watchman  to  patrol 
the  grove,  garden,  shore,  and  main  house. 

M  'Second.  Every  day,  a  look-out  shall  be  sta- 
tioned by  the  jetty,  with  binoculars,  to  sweep  the 
beach  and  especially  the  near  point  of  Mace's 
island;  to  give  warning  immediately,  if  he  sees 
either  a  boat  putting  off,  or  any  person  wading  the 
channel  toward  us. 

11  'Third.  Picked  natives  shall  camp  near  the 
sheep  walk,  to  prevent  any  approach  by  land. 

"  'Fourth.  Armed  escort  for  Miss  Fraye,  every- 
where outside  her  house.'  " 

The  conspirators  eyed  one  another  across  the 
dying  light. 


198  THE    FAR    CRY 

"Hold  hard!"  put  in  Tisdale.  "Point  four  is 
delicate.    Who's  to  be  escort?" 

Blank  looks  followed.  No  one  had  foreseen  the 
question.  They  had  cut  straws  for  the  night 
watch;  but  here  was  a  duty  which  demanded  some- 
thing more  than  rotation  in  office.  There  were  no 
volunteers.    Tisdale  answered  himself. 

"You,  Sainty." 

The  sailor  recoiled  in  his  chair. 

"Me?"  he  cried,  like  one  accused  of  monstrous 
iniquity.  "Me,  the  hulkingest  ...  to  look  after 
her?  Bells  o'  Beulah,  you're  lunatic!  Go  get  the 
Pope  o'  Rome!" 

But  Wallace  basely  gave  his  vote,  nodding  at 
Arthur.  They  were  two  to  one.  The  candle  snuff 
leaned  over,  and  burned  blue  in  a  welter  of  wax. 

"Ye  skulkers!"  Godbolt  stood  up,  incensed. 
"Putting  it  on  me!     Shirkers!" 

Tisdale  caught  him  by  the  hand,  pleading. 

"Sainty!  You're  the  oldest.  We  can't,  and 
somebody  must.  What  else  did  her  grandfather 
say  to-night?  'Let  the  rest  go.  Look  after  Kath- 
erine.'  I'm  not  fit  to,  Rob's  not.  You  must,  old 
boy.  You're  the  only  real  shot  with  a  gun.  She 
might  depend  on  that,  if  the  pinch  came.  You 
must!" 

The   long   black   candle-wick   curled    into    its 


IN    CHARGE  199 

brazen  cell,  and  expired.  Darkness  filled  the  room 
— a  darkness  that  gradually  became  gray  starlight. 
The  doorway  glimmered  at  the  top  with  heavenly 
stars ;  at  the  bottom  with  glow-worm  stars  reflected 
from  the  lagoon;  and  in  this  frame,  half  blurred 
against  the  shadow  of  plantains,  Godbolt's  tall 
body  loomed  like  a  cross,  with  both  arms  out- 
spread as  he  gripped  the  jambs.  He  leaned  there 
for  some  time,  without  replying. 

"If  I  must,"  he  muttered,  rather  to  the  night 
than  to  the  room,  "I  must." 

His  broad  shadow  dropped  its  arms,  and  faded 
from  the  door. 

"My  watch  now.    Go  to  bed." 

He  had  shouldered  the  island,  and  taken  their 
first  patrol.  Ocean  made  the  sole  disturbance,  be- 
yond its  barrier. 

Dawn  came  in  a  pink  mist,  morning  blazed  red 
through  areca  and  plantain,  a  multitude  of  birds 
"warmed  their  little  loves"  with  twittering  com- 
plaint among  bush  and  tree-top.  Nothing  had 
happened.  Oliver  Mace  and  his  forty  odd  men 
might  have  levanted  in  the  night,  so  far  as  any  life 
appeared  from  the  dark-green  bulk  of  Mango  Is- 
land, floating  on  the  southwestern  glaze  of  the 
lagoon. 

Soon   after   breakfast,    Godbolt   reported   for 


200  THEFARCRY 

duty — the  duty  which  his  fellows  had  put  upon 
him  over  night.  His  mode  of  reporting  was  like 
the  man,  blunt  and  apparently  simple. 

They  were  all  assembled  at  the  rear  of  the 
house,  Mr.  Fraye  lying  in  his  long  chair,  the  young 
commissioners  leaning  on  the  rail  near  by,  and 
smoking.  Sunlight  poured  through  the  trees,  and 
gilded  the  brown  floor  of  the  grove,  as  if  an  east- 
ern gate  swung  wide  to  let  the  earliest  morning 
flood  a  cloister.  Not  far  off,  though  partly  hid- 
den by  shrubbery,  Katherine  stood  beside  the  pole 
of  her  dove-cote.  Her  head  caught  the  light;  and 
from  time  to  time  her  hand  rose  in  a  graceful 
motion,  like  the  hand  of  a  sower  flinging  seeds 
broadcast.  Pigeons  fluttered  above  her,  dropped 
behind  the  shrubs  again — now  a  white  pigeon,  now 
a  russet-mottled,  or  a  pair  of  blue  "leadies."  The 
girl  was  talking  to  them  all,  as  they  rose,  and 
circled,  and  fell  with  their  peaceful  whinny  of 
wings. 

"You  think,  sir,"  said  Godbolt,  "that  these  boys 
are  right  about  .  .  .  her?" 

Old  Mr.  Fraye  searched  him  with  a  kindly 
smile. 

"Quite,  Captain.  We  confide  her  to  you  for  the 
present." 

Without  more  ado,  the  sailor  got  up  from  the 


I . 


IN    CHARGE  201 

railing,  went  down  into  the  grove,  and  marched 
straight  over  to  the  dove-cote  shrubbery. 

"Miss  Fraye,"  he  broke  out,  "would  you  take 
me  for  a  guardian  angel?" 

The  pigeons  whirled  aloft,  in  a  medley  of  lus- 
trous feathers,  eddying  upward,  so  that  Kather- 
ine's  brown  eyes  and  fair  hair  gleamed,  for  a  mo- 
ment, through  a  storm-cloud  of  wings.  When  the 
sunshine  cleared,  she  stood  holding  a  single  mem- 
ber of  her  flock — a  white  pigeon,  that  balanced  on 
her  fore-arm,  and  leaned  his  bosom  against  her 
blue  dress. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  say  that?"  she  re- 
joined. Either  Godbolt's  sudden  appearance  or 
the  flurry  of  pigeons,  had  given  her  a  start.  "Why 
do  you  ask?" 

He  wasted  no  preamble. 

"Your  grandfather^  feel  easier  if  you  had  com- 
pany," he  said,  with  a  vague  gesture,  "whenever 
you  go — roundabout  like,  next  few  days.  'Twould 
freshen  the  nip  on  his  mind,  sort  of.    I  don't  want 

to  hamper  you  none.     But "     The  sailor's 

black  eyes  cast  a  flickering  glance  toward  the 
veranda;  his  cheerful  outdoor  voice  descended  to 
its  lower  notes.  "But  you  running  free,  like,  and 
me  within  good  hail,  somewheres — why,  you  no 
need  to  carry  yesterday's  gun  from  now  for'ard!" 


202  THEFARCRY 

Katherine  stroked  her  pigeon.  Whether  she 
was  annoyed,  or  merely  trying  not  to  laugh,  God- 
bolt  could  not  be  certain.  Then  she  looked  up; 
their  eyes  met ;  and  he  knew  that  she  had  taken  the 
spirit,  not  the  form,  of  his  poor  words. 

"You're  very  kind,  Captain.  Perhaps  you'll  see 
me  to  the  village,  by  and  by."  She  paused;  and 
smiling,  held  out  her  arm  with  the  bird  upon  it. 
"Don't  you  recognize  your  old  friend?" 

The  pigeon  spread  his  white  wings  and  tail, 
shifted  his  rosy  claws,  and  caught  a  new  balance 
on  his  perch.  He  was  the  carrier,  the  spent  mes- 
senger from  abroad. 

"The  little  tyke !"  cried  Godbolt,  joyfully. 

As  though  averse  to  nicknames,  the  bird  sprang 
from  her  arm,  and  flickered  up  to  join  his  com- 
panions on  the  sunny  ledges  of  the  cote. 

"He  brought  you  here,"  said  Katherine. 

They  both  stood  looking  overhead,  watching 
him  strut  and  wheel  among  the  others. 

"God  bless  him  for  that !"  boomed  the  sailor. 

Katherine  turned  away,  rather  quickly. 

"Shall  we  get  ready  for  the  village?"  she  asked. 
"It's  time  we  oversaw  the  husking." 

So  began  a  week  of  peaceful  and  busy  days.  To 
see  this  pair  together — Godbolt,  heavy  of  frame 
but  light  on  foot,  rolling  along  beside  the  girl — no 


IN    CHARGE  203 

one  would  have  taken  them  for  ward  and  guard- 
ian, or  guessed  that  on  her  account  he  carried  a 
weapon  under  his  tunic,  in  the  arm-pit.  They  went 
away  laughing  and  talking ;  they  returned  so.  The 
village — a  toy  street  of  tawny  basket-woven  huts, 
shining  cleanly  under  slant  palms  and  bowers  afire 
with  hibiscus — the  village  knew  a  large,  merry 
gentleman  who  watched  the  naked  children  play, 
and  learned  their  names  so  quickly,  while  the  Prin- 
cess of  the  Island  was  indoors  with  some  sick 
woman,  telling  the  neighbors  what  the  best  food 
might  be.  The  go-down  saw  them  inseparable; 
for  white-clouted  workmen,  trotting  under  pole 
and  panniers  into  that  cool,  shady  warehouse,  got 
their  tally-splints  from  the  merry  gentleman,  and 
timorously  watched  the  Princess  enter  in  her  book 
the  tale  of  cocoanuts  poured  clumping  on  the  mats. 
Rumors  coursed  everywhere,  from  the  village  to 
the  farthest  western  horn  of  the  atoll,  and  the 
swineherds'  camp  by  the  channel :  rumors  of  war, 
of  a  new  master  coming  from  Mango  Island  with 
ne'er-do-wells,  and  a  change  for  the  worse;  ru- 
mors that  were  checked  by  the  sight  of  Katherine 
passing  with  her  guard. 

And  so  the  week  went  by :  no  word  from  Mace, 
no  stir  from  Mango  Island  but  a  wreath  of  smoke 
before  meal-time. 


204  THEFARCRY 

Late  one  afternoon,  the  go-down  doors  being 
shut  for  the  night,  Katherine  and  Godbolt  took 
their  walk  eastward,  some  three  miles,  to  the  ocean 
side.  A  loud  surf  crashed,  as  they  went  threading 
the  hollows  and  low  mounds  of  an  upward-sloping 
wood;  and  their  first  view,  when  the  trees  parted 
on  gray  coral  boulders,  was  a  view  of  smothering 
crests,  the  whole  sea  outflanking  them  in  a  concave 
series,  white  wall  after  white  wall  that  toppled 
roaring  on  the  reef,  to  explode  and  shoot  high 
against  the  sunlight.  Each  wave  burst  afar,  but 
sent  hissing  layers  onward,  so  that  the  island's 
outer  curve,  a  thirty-foot  rampart  of  coral  bould- 
ers, storm-built  and  water-carven,  hung  beetling 
over  sea-foam  laced  with  Tyrian  blue.  Here  was 
land's  end,  all  broken  into  blocks  and  lumps  and 
ruined  seats,  as  of  an  amphitheatre  bent  wrong 
side  out. 

Godbolt  found  his  own  hyperbole  for  the  scene. 

"The  stern  of  the  Earth,"  said  he,  "kicking  up 
her  wake  behind  her !" 

They  had  chosen  two  blocks  of  coral,  not  far 
apart,  where  they  could  sit  facing  each  other. 
Katherine  turned  her  back  to  the  sea,  and  with  an 
easel  before  her,  was  busily  dabbing  brush  into 
paint,  and  paint  on  canvas.  Godbolt,  with  knife, 
twine,  and  glue-bottle,  sat  woolding  a  new  shaft 


IN    CHARGE  20s 

for  the  golf  club  he  had  broken.  Each  worked  as 
if  there  were  no  time  to  lose;  yet  their  work 
seemed  only  an  excuse  for  talking. 

"The  stern  o'  the  Earth,  sailing  away  with 
us!" 

Katherine,  behind  her  canvas,  kept  up  a  run- 
ning fire  of  glances,  preoccupied  and  furtive 
glances,  now  at  him,  now  at  the  palms  behind  him, 
and  the  long  shadow  of  their  frontier. 

"Mmmh,"  she  mumbled,  a  brush  between  her 
lips;  then,  removing  it — aYes.  A  lonely  place. 
Very  lonely,  and  final,  and  .   .  .  solemn." 

They  worked  on  together,  in  friendly  silence. 

"Can't  I  see  what  you're  painting  of  it?"  the 
sailor  begged.    He  made  as  if  to  rise. 

"Don't  you  dare!"  She  frowned  him  down 
again.  "How  can  I  do  a  port — a  landscape,  with 
you  jumping  back  and  forth  across  it?" 

He  sat  quite  still,  and  patiently  carried  his 
woolding  round  and  round  the  shaft. 

Regularly,  when  the  sea  dealt  a  louder,  heavier 
shock,  they  could  feel  the  island  quake  under  them 
with  a  deep  thrill:  fathomless  foundations  were 
set  vibrating,  for  only  a  moment,  but  for  a  moment 
which  undid  the  security  of  ages,  and  made  earth 
itself  appear  hardly  more  stable  than  a  passing 
thought. 


206  THE    FAR    CRY 

"Time,"  said  Godbolt,  in  soliloquy.  "Time's  a 
funny  thing." 

"And  what  puts  that  into  your  head?"  inquired 
Katherine,  behind  her  canvas. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  for  an  instant,  as  if 
his  idea  were  palpable  and  all-surrounding. 

"Why,  there  her  under-pinning  goes  it  again," 
said  he.  "The  whole  place  beats  like  your  pulse, 
or  a  time-piece  ticking.  Not  Greenwich  time, 
either,  it  ain't:  a  little  piece  of  eternity,  might 
say."  He  dropped  his  hand,  for  tfoe  tremor  had 
passed.  "And  to  think  of  all  them  little  beggars 
down  below,  the  coral  fellows,  thingumbobs, 
polyps,  that  lived  and  died  so  ancient,  leaving  their 
bones  to  build  and  build.  Talk  about  your  Taber- 
nacles o'  the  Lord?    Gorry ! And  I've  known 

you  just  about  a  week!" 

The  girl  laughed.  It  pleased  her  to  see  his  mind 
cut  a  wide  circle,  then  drop. 

"Has  the  week  been  long?" 

But  Godbolt  was  not  laughing. 

"Yes,  if  length  meant  bigness,"  he  replied. 
"The  best  portion  out  o'  my  life,  'tis,  anyhow." 

Another  mood,  another  man,  would  have  made 
this  utterance  a  mere  dismal  piece  of  folly.  Even 
now,  Katherine's  color  mounted;  but  she  saw  God- 
bolt's  face  as  she  loved  to  see  it,  warm  and  sorrow- 


IN    CHARGE  207 

ful  and  honest,  like  his  words.  She  remembered 
also  what  her  grandfather  had  said  about  voices; 
for  this  man's  voice  rang  true,  giving  out  rudely 
the  meditations  of  a  clean  heart. 

"I  call  it  a  good  week,"  she  assented;  and  be- 
cause a  kind  of  safety  lay  in  plaguing  him 

"Why,  Captain  1"  she  went  on,  severely,  "has  your 
life  been  such  a  blank  as  that?  A  disgusting, 
dreary  desert'  ?" 

Godbolt  regarded  her  steadily. 

"  'Tain't,"  s  id  he,  "the  wittiest  joke  in  nature, 
to  be  a — to  be  a  superfluous  man." 

Katherine  made  a  funny  little  face,  of  surprise 
and  mock  reverence. 

"Are  you  the  Superfluous  Man?  You  don't  in 
the  least  resemble  any  character  of  Gorky's !" 

The  sailor  was  not  to  be  flouted  into  a  better 
conceit  of  his  position,  or  baffled  by  little  authors. 

"Gawky?  Some  gawks  can  be  o'  service,"  he 
retorted.  "Not  me.  Drifting,  always.  That's  my 
hookum,  drifting  by  chance.  No  sense  in  it."  He 
fell  to  work  on  the  broken  brassy,  now  almost  as 
good  as  new  under  his  neat  repairs.  "And  come 
old  age,"  he  chuckled,  "some  job  like  this:  to  sit 
on  an  oakum  bale  and  whittle  boats  for  children, 
like  one  o'  them  pious  hoary-whiskered  sea-faring 
frauds  in  a  Sabba'-School  book !" 


208  THE    FAR    CRY 

They  laughed.  Katherine  swung  into  hiding 
behind  her  easel,  where  some  problem  of  art  ab- 
sorbed her — all  but  one  round,  young  elbow,  that 
wagged  continually  with  the  strokes  of  her  brush. 

"Is  that  why  you  refuse  wine?" 

The  sailor  gave  a  jump.  To  paint  pictures  was 
wonderful  enough,  but  here  sat  a  girl  who  could 
do  that,  busily,  and  meanwhile  send  her  thoughts 
winding  in  through  the  tangled  motives  of  a  man. 

"Drink  never  helped  me  none,"  he  admitted. 
"I  wouldn't  dare  try  it.  Not  while  you're  alone, 
and  a  wasted  piece  in  the  world." 

She  faced  him  again,  reproach  in  her  eyes. 

"That's  my  first  disappointment.  That's  not 
like  you.    It  sounds  weak." 

He  raised  his  head,  proudly. 

"Weak?"  he  cried.  "O'  course.  Any  man's 
weak.  Some  of  us  don't  ask  for  Dutch  courage, 
that's  all!" 

He  thought  she  smiled,  but  the  canvas  inter- 
vened before  he  could  be  certain.  She  was  paint- 
ing faster  than  ever.  The  shadow  of  the  island 
trees  which  covered  them,  now  streamed  across 
coral  flats  and  darkened  the  outer  pools.  Ashore, 
evening  had  arrived;  the  afternoon  glowed  only 
at  sea,  on  the  white-fuming  waves  and  the  blue 
plateau  of  the  horizon. 


IN    CHARGE  209 

Katherine  shut  her  paint-box,  and  stood  up. 

"The  Grandpater  will  be  fretting.  We  should 
never  have  stayed  so  late." 

A  cocoanut,  still  in  the  husk,  happened  to  be 
lying  where  it  had  rolled,  among  the  breakage  of 
the  higher  beach. 

"There!"  She  turned  the  thing  over  with  her 
foot — a  white  mouse  of  a  foot,  as  Godbolt  saw. 
"Is  it  chance,  Captain,  or  design,  that  cocoanuts 
are  shaped  so?" 

He  had  never  before  considered  the  form  of  a 
cocoanut  in  the  husk.  This  windfall  had  three 
brown  surfaces,  joining  in  a  raveled  point  at  either 
end. 

"It's  like  a  fat  sort  o'  boat,"  said  he. 

"A  boat,"  replied  Katherine,  looking  down.  "A 
boat  that  falls  into  the  sea,  by  chance;  and  floats 
away,  and  perhaps  comes  to  nothing,  or  perhaps 
comes  drifting  on  a  reef,  to  help  make  an  island 
like  this,  where  people  live  for  years.  So  logs 
have  come  drifting — by  chance — to  crumble  into 
earth  for  it.  Sometimes  a  log  brings  a  passenger, 
an  animal,  one  or  two  little  creatures  that  have 
sailed  hungry  from  who  knows  where?  Corals 
have  grown,  and  breathed  in  the  spray,  and  died, 
as  you  said,  Captain,  to  leave  their  bones  building 
underneath  and  building.     Wasted  pieces?     I've 


I 
210  THE    FAR    CRY 

wondered,  too,  when  I  was  walking  the  shore 
alone;  before  you  came — by  chance?" 

The  argument  was  light  as  an  arrow,  but  flew 
straight.  Godbolt  acknowledged  a  hit,  not  un- 
gracefully, by  clapping  his  big  hand  on  his  chest. 

"You're  right !  'Twas  your  pigeon  led  us  here. 
Some  sense  in  our  coming!" 

Katherine  looked  up  at  him,  then  swiftly  down 
as  before. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  meant  to  me— your 
coming?"  Her  voice  was  low  and  hurried,  but 
had  a  quality  like  the  rise  of  song.  "It  was  an 
answer,  when  you  came.  We  were  alone.  This 
man — this  Mace  .  .  .  We  needed  help.  There 
was  no  ship  to  hope  for,  any  more  than  now;  so 
that  I  gave  up  watching  the  sea.  Do  you  know 
that  story  of  a  girl  chained  to  the  rocks,  who  could 
only  pray  for  a  knight?  Well,  I — never  mind,  it 
all  came  true.  At  our  worst  need,  there  you  sailed 
in  out  of  the  sunset.  That  was  the  wonder.  Three 
men,  three  good  champions  ready  to  stand  by  us ! 
You  broke  through  the  sky,  as  our  brown  people 
say  of  ships  that  come.  After  so  much  longing, 
to  see  my  three  men  at  the  door,  and  you  their 
captain " 

She  stopped  short,  alarmed  by  her  confession. 
When  she  dared  raise  her  eyes,  they  found  in  God- 


IN    CHARGE  211 

bolt's  a  reflection  of  their  panic.  He  was  very 
pale.  There  came  a  long  pause,  through  which 
the  fundamental  quaking  of  the  island  passed  like 
a  bit  of  their  own  emotion. 

"Home  now,"  said  Katherine.  "Let's  go 
home." 

As  they  turned  from  the  noise  and  brightness  of 
the  sea,  and  were  about  to  enter  the  wood,  she 
pointed  suddenly  with  her  left  hand. 

"That  came  here  by  design.  The  Home  Rock. 
We  brought  it  from  England." 

A  granite  boulder  loomed  where  the  dusk  be- 
gan, under  the  palms — a  rude  monument,  front- 
ing the  open  sea  with  one  gray  face  on  which  glim- 
mered several  tablets  of  bronze.  The  Home 
Rock,  in  a  land  that  held  no  other,  it  stood  among 
familiar  flowers,  a  mass  of  blue  and  white  peri- 
winkle covering  the  place  of  unforgotten  ashes. 

"If  you  are  a  wasted  piece,  what  were  they? 
My  father's  name  was  Francis,  like  yours." 

Godbolt  could  not  answer  her,  for  the  waves 
rolled  an  everlasting  requiem. 

The  sound  of  this  grew  faint  and  high,  as  the 
pair  hurried  home  through  twilight  woods,  down 
the  imperceptible  hill  that  sloped  from  the  sea- 
rampart  to  the  lagoon.  Not  till  they  saw  their 
veranda  lights  twinkling,  did  the  girl  speak  again. 


212  THE    FAR    CRY 

"I  want  you  to  promise  me,  Captain  Francis." 

"Anything  1"  said  he. 

The  veranda  was  empty.  She  paused,  half-way 
up  the  steps. 

"Let  me  feel  proud  of  you/'  she  begged. 
"Don't  think  yourself  .  .   .  adrift,  any  more !" 

He  looked  up  slowly,  clasping  her  mended 
brassy  and  her  painter's  kit,  as  though  loth  to  go 
empty-handed. 

"A  new  way  o'  thinking,  that  is !"  he  rejoined, 
hoarsely.     "It  goes  to  a  man's  head." 

"But  promise.  You're  not  adrift  now,  or 
alone?" 

He  laughed. 

"When  I'm  certain  sure — when  this  old  busted 
cocoanut  o'  mine  comes  floating  to  land  solid,  and 
no  mistake — why,  bless  your  heart,  I'd — I'd  fill 
a  glass  o'  wine  to  your  good  fortune !" 

They  shook  hands  on  the  compact.  Katherine 
ran  upstairs  with  her  canvas.  He  failed  to  see  the 
painted  side  of  that,  for  she  had  held  it  jealously 
away  from  him. 

It  was  observed,  a  few  moments  later,  that  God- 
bolt  came  singing  into  the  bachelors'  house;  that 
his  features  caught  something  beyond  their  share 
of  light;  that  all  his  motions  were  those  of  a  man 
buoyed  up  by  more  than  mortal  confidence. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

FIRST   BLOOD 

Mace  was  not  dead,  but  waiting.  Thrice  a  day 
his  pillar  of  smoke  twined  over  Mango  Island  and 
faded  on  the  sky,  like  the  breath  of  a  puny  vol- 
cano, half  asleep.  Bright  weather  covered  the 
atoll,  from  sunrise  to  sunset;  night  unto  night 
showed  knowledge  abiding  in  clear  stars;  and  all 
things  but  the  sea  remained  quiet.  It  was  only  a 
truce. 

One  afternoon,  about  four  o'clock,  a  scared  vil- 
lager ran  panting  into  the  bachelors'  house.  God- 
bolt  and  Wallace  happened  at  that  moment  to  be 
there. 

"People  coming!"  cried  the  runner.  "Orang 
datang!    The  people  come!" 

He  was  one  of  those  picked  men — picked  from 
a  poor  lot — who  had  lain  camping  near  the  sheep 
walk;  a  handsome  creature,  whose  god-like  bronze 
body  encased  a  chicken  heart.    Distracted  between 

213 


214  THE    FAR    CRY 

propriety  and  fear,  he  clawed  up  the  white  clout 
slipping  round  his  loins,  and  babbled.  People 
had  stolen  in  (he  tried  to  say)  through  the  west- 
ern woods  beyond  the  field. 

"Well,"  Godbolt  drawled,  "we  better  go  look." 

So  many  vain  alarms  had  come  in  the  same 
fashion  from  the  same  quarter,  that  now  the  two 
white  men  donned  their  helmets  lazily,  and  made 
no  great  haste  about  going.  They  sauntered  west- 
ward, through  a  curving  avenue  of  cocoanut  and 
betel  spars.  Their  cowardly  vedette  followed 
them  skulking  a  little  way,  then  "took  his  hook," 
as  Godbolt  said,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

They  came  to  his  late  outpost  at  the  verge  of 
the  woods,  but  found  all  tranquil.  Their  picked 
men  were  gone.  The  green  pasture  glowed ;  sheep 
lay  in  the  hollows  of  it,  and  strayed  nibbling  over 
gentle  knolls. 

Both  men  made  a  careful  scrutiny,  far  and  near. 
All  round  the  field,  the  serried  border  of  palms 
quivered  and  gleamed  in  a  light  wind.  Sunshine 
poured  free  as  over  a  parade  ground.  There  was 
no  sign,  even,  of  Katherine's  red  flags.  Only  the 
sheep  occupied  this  clearing,  their  dusty  coats 
brightened  like  so  many  bits  of  golden  fleece. 

"Anybody  there?"  Wallace  nodded  at  the  west- 
ern shadows,  long  and  dense  beneath  a  lowered 
sun. 


FIRST    BLOOD  215 

Godbolt  shook  his  head. 

"Psalm  Twenty-two,"  he  replied.  UI  can't 
sight  no  trouble,  these  parts.     Can  you?" 

Wallace  looked  everywhere,  with  his  faithful 
and  heavy  scowl. 

"No.  TheyVe  cried  wolf  on  us  again.  I  don't 
believe  Mace  would  dare.  We're  too  much  for 
him,  the  three  of  us." 

"Don't  you  go  be  sure  o'  that,"  chuckled  the 
sailor.  "Mace  ain't  the  boy  to  lack  courage.  If 
things  was  ripe,  he'd  come  along." 

After  a  while  he  added,  seriously: 

"Blest  if  I  know  Mace's  game.  Now's  his  time 
for  jumping  us  off  the  board,  now  or  never.  Pretty 
soon  her  brother'll  come  sailing  back — this  boy 
Walter,  nice  little  easy  boy  himself,  but  with  a 
vessel  and  a  crew,  likely.  Mace  better  start  now, 
or  he'll  overstay  his  tide.  Shakespeare  allowed 
there  was  one,  in  the  affairs  o'  men." 

Godbolt  laughed.  He  was  in  high  feather  now- 
adays, and  on  this  day  above  all. 

"Whole  thing  seems  to  make  you  happy," 
grumbled  Wallace,  and  stirred,  with  the  toe  of  his 
pump,  a  little  dust  out  of  the  grass. 

"Happy?    Almost!" 

A  moment  later,  Wallace  raised  his  head. 

"I  was  afraid  so.  What's  to  be  the  outcome, 
Sainty?     What  about  her?" 


216  THE    FAR    CRY 

At  that  question,  Godbolt  turned  as  if  stung. 
He  spoke,  but  with  sort  of  violent  deliberation. 

"I  like  you,  Rob,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "I  like  ye 
fine,  Rob.  You  got  a  grand  square  way  o'  look- 
ing at  a  man,  square,  and  forehead  foremost,  and 
broad  betwixt  the  eyes,  like  a  good  old  black  bull. 
I  like  that  way;  keep  it  so;  while  ye  talk."  The 
sailor  went  pale,  went  red  again,  then  laughed 
unsteadily.  "Whip  her  out,  what  you're  think- 
ing!" he  cried.  "You're  into  the  china  shop, 
Robin,  old  bull!  Plump  into  the  china  shop. 
Smash  away." 

Wallace  continued  looking  at  him,  front  fore- 
most, as  he  desired. 

"I'm  thinking  this,"  replied  Wallace.  "I  like 
her.    You  like  her.    That's  all  right  for  now." 

Godbolt  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  held 
him  at  arm's  length,  crying,  in  a  heat  of  honest 
affection. 

"Like  her?  Katherine?  O' course  we  like  her! 
What  ails  ye  for  that,  Rob  my  child?  Both  of 
us,  how  could  we  choose  but  like  her?" 

Wallace  drew  free  from  Godbolt's  hand,  and 
gathered  himself  forward  speaking.  It  was  his 
turn,  now,  to  be  white  in  the  face. 

"I'm  a  stupid  kind  of  chap,"  he  began,  obsti- 
nately.     "I'm   not   clever,   like   Arthur   Tisdale. 


FIRST    BLOOD  217 

You  know  me,  Sainty.  I'm  dull  as  wood.  But 
don't  go  thinking  I'm  jealous.  No  woman  ever 
looks  my  way  twice;  or  if  they  do,  I  can't  find  a 
word  to  say.  No,  sir,  it's  not  jealousy.  I  like 
her,  but  I  like  you — better.    You're  my  notion  of 

a  man.     Sainty "     And  here,  for  once  in  a 

rather  stolid  lifetime,  Wallace  beat  his  breast — 
"Why,  Sainty,  I'd  go  through  fire  for  you !  And 
so  would  any  woman.  There !  The  cat's  out  of 
the  bag!" 

He  let  go  a  great  breath,  and  stood  waiting. 

Godbolt  stepped  in  closer. 

"What  d'ye  mean,  Rob?"  he  demanded,  sternly. 

Wallace  held  his  ground  without  flinching. 

"I  mean  just  this,"  he  retorted.  "And  you 
know  it — deep  down,  you  know  it.  I've  thought  it 
over  nights  abed.  I've  seen  it  in  your  face,  the 
way  you  talk,  the  way  you  move,  lately.  Kather- 
ine's    coming    to    think    of   you,    as    I    say    any 

woman Oh,   look  ahead,   Sainty!     We're 

here  on  our  behavior.  It's  all  temporary.  Noth- 
ing ahead.    All  bound  to  come  to  nothing." 

Godbolt  knotted  up  his  brows  and  his  fists. 

"Do  you  see  past  what  you're  a-hinting,  Rob?" 
His  black  eyes  burned.  "For  less'n  that,  I'd — 
not  on  my  account,  on  hers " 

Wallace  turned  away,  and  stared  at  the  seaward 
palms. 


218  THE    FAR    CRY 

"It  takes  a  fool,"  he  observed,  bitterly,  "to 
speak  out  as  I  do." 

A  dry  clashing  of  palm-blades  ran  round  that 
sunny  hollow  square  in  which  he  stood;  and  like 
another  voice  or  mood  of  the  same  breeze,  he 
heard  old  ocean  mourning. 

"Rob,  it's  me  played  the  fool." 

Wallace  kept  his  back  turned;  however  dull, 
he  knew  better  than  to  watch  a  friend  stammering 
and  choking  with  useless  anger. 

"A  good  mate  you  are,  Rob.  I  couldn't  fight 
ye,  no,  not  for  her  sake,  even;  because  you're 
wrong  there,  about  her.  Wrong  by  a  million  mile, 
thank  the  Lord!" 

These  last  words  rang  so  different,  so  grateful, 
that  Wallace  could  face  round  again.  For  both 
men,  it  was  a  haggard  moment. 

"About  me,  you  spoke  right,"  said  Godbolt, 
firmly.  "All  this  must  come  to  naught.  Nothing 
ahead.    What  way  is  there  out — for  me?" 

His  answer  came  flying  with  a  little  spiteful 
noise  through  the  air.  Not  caring  what  they  did, 
the  friends  had  wandered  forth  into  the  pasture, 
and  remained — as  chance  would  place  them — two 
white  and  shining  marks  upon  a  well-cropped 
knoll.  The  spiteful  noise  flew,  enveloped  them, 
and  died — like  the  hum  of  a  taut  wire  struck  by 


FIRST    BLOOD  219 

an  urchin's  pebble.  Quicker  than  thought,  it  was 
repeated.  Then  something  snapped  confusedly 
between  the  two  men. 

"Shot!"  groaned  Wallace,  and  staggered,  and 
fell  groveling  on  the  dusty  grass.  "I'm  hit,  Sainty, 
through  the  arm  I" 

He  heard  his  own  words,  marveled  at  his  own 
cleverness;  for  all  he  had  felt  was  one  sledge- 
hammer shock  near  the  elbow,  that  spun  him  half 
round  after  it,  and  so  felled  him.  He  tried  to  be 
game,  to  rise.  A  heavy  hand  knocked  him  sprawl- 
ing and  dizzy  as  before. 

"Flat !  Lay  flat  I"  roared  Godbolt,  pinning  him 
to  earth  and  setting  the  example.  "Don't  ye  stand 
up  and  give  a  target — Reckless  wasters  we 
was!  Lay  flat — Aha,  I  spy!  The  beggar's 
hid  amongst  them  trees !" 

A  blaze  of  shots  followed.  The  sailor,  cross- 
ing his  wrists  on  the  ground,  twice  emptied  his  re- 
volver loudly,  carefully,  and  smokily  into  the  west- 
ern woods  and  the  sunset.  Three  or  four  jets  of 
yellow  dust  answered  him,  at  first,  by  spattering 
up  from  the  knoll ;  but  these  quickly  ceased,  even 
while  sheep  after  sheep  bundled  away  helter-skel- 
ter for  the  nearest  woods. 

"Missed  him !  The  beggar's  running,"  grunted 
Godbolt.    "He  had  smokeless  powder,  and  a  si- 


220  THE    FAR    CRY 

lencer  on  his  muzzle,  drat  him!  Hid  where  we 
scared  that  ram,  other  day.  But  we  gave  him 
enough.    He's  run  clean  for  Mango  Island." 

Wallace  did  his  best  to  feel  awake,  though  sky 
and  treetops  reeled. 

"Mace,  was  it?" 

Godbolt  stowed  his  weapon  under  his  arm-pit, 
and  jeered — obviously  jeered,  for  the  moral  ef- 
fect 

"Mace?  No.  Some  hired  man.  Ye  ain't  no 
more  than  winged,  are  ye?  Why,  there!  Mace 
could  a*  shot,  they  tell  me.  That  was  only  the 
hired  man." 

Then,  with  a  strange,  uncouth  tenderness — 

"Rob,"  he  inquired,  "ye  ain't  hurt  bad,  are 
ye?" 

Wallace  grinned  foolishly,  sat  up,  displayed  a 
red  crease  in  the  elbow  of  his  right  sleeve. 

"Not  badly.  My  arm's  broken.  First  blood 
for  Mace." 

His  friend  reached  over,  and  fingered  his  wound 
considerately. 

"Broke,  yes.  Bullet  clear  through.  Hum:  I 
can  set  that,  Rob.  Gun-shot  holes  are  no  treat 
to  me;  I've  seen  plenty  worse.  Come  on  home  till 
we  can  jury-rig  ye." 

They  crawled  backward  out  of  the  sunshine ;  lay 


FIRST    BLOOD  221 

watching  among  the  palm  trunks;  and  then,  with 
many  a  backward  glance,  began  to  retreat.  Peace 
reclaimed  the  pasture.  From  woods  to  left  and 
right  the  silly  sheep  were  venturing  out,  bleating, 
joining  once  more  their  scattered  groups.  The  af- 
fair was  over;  an  ambush  at  long  range,  not  an 
advance. 

The  two  skirmishers  came  home  silently,  Wal- 
lace nursing  his  arm,  Godbolt  wrapt  in  thought, 
with  eyes  following  a  sombre  day-dream  along 
the  path.  Though  lacking  words,  they  felt  no 
lack;  never  before  had  they  walked  in  such  near 
understanding,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  spirit  and 
spirit  alongside.  Wallace  always  remembered 
this  strange  walk  together. 

So  the  day  failed,  and  so  they  came  by  twilight 
into  their  bachelors'  house  among  the  plantains. 
Godbolt  struck  a  match,  and  set  a  candle  burning. 

"Now,"  he  commanded,  "hold  out  your  pinion, 
my  duck." 

When  Wallace  lay  back  in  a  chair  at  last,  with 
his  arm  admirably  slung,  and  the  dull  stupor  of 
it  clearing  into  pain,  he  let  his  mind  swim  between 
lethargy  and  a  vague  sense  of  personal  escape.  He 
saw  Godbolt  move  the  candle  to  a  dressing-table, 
near  by,  and  stand  there  cleaning  and  loading  his 
Webley.    Something — the  man's  downward  look, 


222  THE    FAR    CRY 

the  careful  movement  of  his  hands,  or  perhaps  the 
little  taper  shining  on  a  white  cloth — transformed 
his  action  almost  to  that  of  a  priest  before  some 
lonely  altar. 

"You're  to  lay  quiet,  Rob."  The  sailor  put  the 
pistol  under  his  jacket,  and  turning,  took  his  pa- 
tient by  the  left  hand.  Not  then,  but  in  after  days, 
it  appeared  that  he  was  bidding  farewell.  "Mind 
you  lay  quiet.  You're  off  duty  henceforward,  well 
out  of  a  bad  pidgin,  boy.  I'll  send  Arthur  in,  to 
keep  you  company  for  a  while." 

At  the  door  he  paused.  There  was  a  kind  of 
longing  in  his  look. 

"You  spoke  out  noble  this  afternoon,"  he  added, 
cordially.  "Noble.  Francis  Godbolt  ain't  the 
sort  to  go  denying  it.  You  cleared  the  air,  all 
round.  Oliver  Mace,  we  know  his  game  now; 
wanted  to  pick  us  off  separate,  one  by  one;  but 
we'll  stop  that,  don't  ye  fret.  Ho!  ho!  We'll 
h'ist  Oliver  in  a  moused  hook,  send  him  higher'n 
Gilderoy'skite!" 

He  ran  down  the  veranda  steps,  crying: 

"Adios,  old  Robin !" 

After  that,  it  was  Tisdale  who  met  him,  brush- 
ing away  banana  pennons  on  the  path  to  Fraye's. 
He  was  no  more  than  a  shape  hurrying  through  the 
gloom. 


FIRST    BLOOD  223 

"Rob's  waiting  for  ye,  Arthur,"  he  announced 
gaily,  in  passing.  "You  skip  along.  No,  I'm 
busy.  Got  a  thing  to  do.  Some  sense  about 
thisl" 

The  next  person  who  saw  him  that  evening, 
and  the  last  friend  who  then  heard  him  speak,  was 
old  Thomas  Fraye. 

It  was  early  starlight  on  the  lagoon  mirror, 
lamplight  in  the  big  room. 

"Mr.  Fraye,"  said  Godbolt,  entering  bare- 
headed, cool,  and  with  no  sign  of  hurry,  "it's  a 
grand  piece  o'  night  outside.     Ain't  it?" 

The  old  man  lay  reading  in  his  chair,  alone. 

"You,  Frank? — I  mean,  you,  Captain?"  He 
lowered  his  book.  "Yes,  indeed,  a  very  fine  night, 
All  well?" 

The  captain  beamed. 

"All  well,  sir.  On  the  point  o'  being  better. 
Fact  is,  I'm  going  for  a  row,  to  take  the  air.  Can 
I  borrow  Anak?  He's  moping  down  round  the 
jetty." 

Fraye  nodded,  and  said : 

"No  wonder  I  call  you  Frank.  You  behave  like 
a  son  to  me,  Captain.  I — I  muddle  the  pair  of 
you  into  one,  sometimes,  thinking,  after  dark." 

Godbolt  smiled  across  the  table.  There  stood 
between  them  a  tray,  with  slender  glasses  round 


224  THE    FAR    CRY 

a  yellow  decanter.  His  face  brightened,  as  if  at 
some  happy  thought. 

"The  Cape  o'  Good  Hope  sherry,  sir?  Is  that 
it? — Good  Hope.    Sounds  like  an  omen." 

He  leaned  over  and  with  a  steady  hand  poured 
a  glass  of  wine,  which  he  then  raised.  The  light 
set  it  blinking. 

"Tell  Katherine — "  his  voice  filled  the  room, 
quietly — "tell  Katherine  I  drank  this  to  her,  and 
all  she  can  ever  hope  for." 

He  shut  his  fist  over  the  empty  glass,  and 
crumpled  it  like  so  much  paper;  let  the  splinters 
trickle  and  tinkle  into  the  tray;  bowed,  and  stalked 
out  through  the  main  veranda. 

Mr.  Fraye  heard  his  footsteps  going  down  the 
garden  path,  his  voice,  afterward,  hailing  Anak 
on  the  jetty.  Illness  confused  the  old  man's  wits; 
for  he  lay  comfortably,  book  in  lap,  and  listened 
while  a  fatal  beat  of  oars  passed  away  toward 
southwestern  stars,  over  the  blue  obscurity  of  the 
lagoon.    Time  slid  by. 

"He  seemed  so  like  her  father,"  mused  Age. 

But  Youth  appeared  at  the  door,  all  flushed  and 
eager.    Katherine  ran  in,  with  Tisdale  following. 

"Where is  he?"  they  cried.  "Sainty!  Where's 
the  captain?" 

Fraye  smiled  at  them. 


FIRST    BLOOD  225 

"The  captain  has  gone  boating,"  he  explained. 
"My  dear,  you  may  feel  honored.  He  drank  your 
health  in  broken  glass,  before  he  went " 

Katherihe  gave  one  look  at  the  table,  the  tray, 
md  the  splinters  glistening  there.  She  let  her  arms 
drop,  slowly,  as  if  the  weight  of  that  honor  bore 
them  down. 

"To  his  death,"  she  whispered,  looking 
strangely  about  the  room,  like  one  who  finds  her- 
self deserted.  "For  our  sake  he  has  gone  to  his 
death.    To  Mace.    We  shall  never  see  him  again." 


CHAPTER    XVII 


A   THING   TO   DO 


Katherine  was  wrong,  in  part.  They  were  to 
see  Godbolt  once  more,  that  very  night;  to  behold 
him  on  the  summit  of  his  life,  topping  the  last 
bright  hill  of  a  high  journey. 

What  happened  in  the  meantime,  Anak  told 
when  all  was  done. 

The  sailor  made  for  the  jetty,  first,  and  called 
Anak  to  come  help  him.  Then,  from  her  shelter 
among  ironwood  boughs,  they  dragged  the  little 
Nantwich  Number  Two  down  into  the  water, 
shoved  her  off,  and  shipped  their  oars.  Godbolt, 
steering,  hummed  a  funny  little  air — so  droll,  in 
fact,  and  so  light-hearted,  that  Anak  failed  to 
watch  their  course  or  guess  what  terror  lay  before 
them. 

"The  Old  Seventy -Six  they've  sallied  forth, 
On  their  crutches  they  do  lean, 
With  their  rifles  leveled  on  us 
226 


A    THING    TO    DO  227 

And  their  specs  they  take  good  aim 


Oh,  there* s  no  retreat,  my  boys,  for  them 
Who'd  rather  die  than  run " 

So  the  steersman  chanted,  happily,  but  no  more 
loudly  than  the  dripping  oars.  The  boat  stole  on- 
ward, under  a  dome  fretted  with  constellations. 
From  the  lagoon — heaven's  liquid  counterpart, 
night's  floor — the  rowing  dug  up  shattered  stars, 
and  sent  them  like  golden  minnows  whirling  astern, 
to  dart  about  profoundly,  and  rejoin,  and  heal  the 
long  scar  of  the  wake. 

"Or  I  fear  that  they  will  conquer  us " 

There  was  no  fear  in  the  singer's  voice.  He 
liked  his  ballad. 

"Or  I  fear  that  they  will  conquer  us 
As  they  conquered  John  Burgoyne 

When  he  got  too  far  from  Canada 

Run  for  life,  hoys,  run!" 

Anak  would  gladly  have  obeyed  this  sentiment, 
when  all  at  once,  turning  from  his  work,  he  saw 
the  grayness  of  a  beach,  close  ahead,  and  knew  it 
for  the  beach  at  Mango  Island.     Somebody  was 


228  THE    FAR    CRY 

coming  down  toward  them  with  a  lantern.  Anak 
dropped  his  oars,  clattering. 

"There,  there !"  Godbolt,  as  he  climbed  ashore, 
patted  the  giant's  back.  "Quiet,  my  son !  Don't 
ye  tremble  so.  Just  ye  wait.  I  got  a  thing  to  do ; 
and  if  I  don't  bring  ye  a  passenger  inside  o'  twenty 
minutes,  you  can  row  straight  home.  There !  And 
that  case,  you  can  tell  'em  all's  well  anyhow.  In 
twenty  minutes,  Mace  living,  I'll  fetch  him  pris- 
oner.   You  wait,  son;  your  part  is  easy." 

The  lantern  now  lighted  them  both,  the  wet 
nose  of  their  boat,  and  a  circle  of  yellow-gray 
strand.  A  weazened,  imp-like  figure  bore  this 
lantern. 

"Hallo,  Satrap!"  chuckled  the  sailor.  "How 
are  ye  ?    Master  at  home  to-night  ?" 

Satrap  wore  a  blood-red  cotton  scarf  round  his 
throat,  to  ward  off  sakit  angin,  the  air  sickness 
that  travels  abroad  after  dark.  He  raised  one  end 
of  the  scarf,  and  rubbed  his  eyes  with  it,  as  though 
to  see  more  clearly  a  sight  beyond  belief. 

"You?"  he  croaked.  In  the  dim  light,  he 
seemed  to  be  all  cheekbones,  ribs,  and  brown 
wrinkles.  "You,  Large  Sir,  in  this  place?  Go 
back.    You  will  die.    Go  back." 

Godbolt  lowered  a  benevolent  grin,  and  shook 
his  head. 


A    THING    TO    DO  229 

"I  won't  go  back  alone.  Tuan  Mace  up  at  the 
house?    Good." 

The  Bugi  opened  wide  his  skinny  arms,  but  God- 
bolt  went  dodging  past  into  the  darkness  of  the 
upper  beach. 

"This  man  will  die,"  grunted  Satrap,  staring; 
then,  after  visible  and  painful  indecision,  he  blew 
out  his  lantern,  and  ran  to  see  whether  he  had 
spoken  true. 

Anak  could  not  long  endure  that  dark,  lonely 
beach.  He  waited,  growing  more  and  more  terri- 
fied, till  with  a  whimper  he  leaped  out  of  the  boat 
and  hurried  inland.  Ancestral  fear  of  devils 
pushed  him  like  a  silent  mob  at  his  back;  a  great 
fascination  pulled  him  on;  so  that  between  these 
two  forces  he  found  himself  panting  up  the  sand- 
hill, running  among  trees  toward  a  bright  light, 
and  presently  kneeling  in  the  dust  of  Mace's  com- 
pound, behind  a  castor-oil  bush.  Satrap  lay  there 
also,  and  shook  as  if  the  hot,  still  night  were  freez- 
ing him. 

Mace's  bungalow,  before  them,  blazed  with 
light — the  infernal  brilliancy  of  acetylene — which 
made  his  big  main  room  a  stage,  a  theatric  setting. 
The  whole  interior  shone  ghastly  through  door 
and  windows,  barred  here  and  there  by  the  leaky 
mesh  of  wall,  as  by  strips  of  porous  curtain. 


23o  THE    FAR    CRY 

Godbolt  had  just  entered  the  room. 

"Good  evening,"  he  sang  out,  on  the  threshold. 

Oliver  Mace  lay  dozing  in  a  chair,  directly 
under  the  light,  beside  his  favorite  table  and  a 
quart  of  brandy.  With  chin  on  breast,  lank  arms 
and  legs  awry,  he  had  sunk  deeply  into  such  a 
rumpled  condition  that  his  white  trousers  and 
white  dinner  jacket  engulfed  him  with  empty  folds. 
At  first  glance,  a  stranger  would  have  thought  him 
drunk  and  torpid;  but  his  long  gray  head  was 
busy,  after  some  fashion,  for  he  lay  smiling,  squint- 
ing down  the  edge  of  his  nose. 

It  was  a  weasel  nap,  soon  broken;  a  weasel's 
pair  of  eyes  he  lifted. 

"Eh?    What?" 

The  apparition  of  Godbolt  brought  him  upright. 

"You  here  again?    In  my  house?" 

From  that  instant,  neither  man  let  the  other 
evade  him  with  eye,  word,  or  hand. 

They  watched  like  rival  conjurers.  The  devil- 
ish patent  light  was  capital  for  this  kind  of  duel- 
ling. 

"What  are  you  here  for?" 

"To  arrest  ye,"  replied  the  sailor,  calmly. 

Mace  puckered  his  thin  brows. 

"Arrest  me?"  He  lay  back  at  ease,  very  scorn- 
ful.   "Where's  your  authority?" 


A    THING    TO    DO  231 

Godbolt  came  forward,  and  produced — without 
moving  his  eye — a  long  envelope  from  his  pocket. 
He  backed  away  again. 

"There.  Read  it.  I  won't  move  while  you're 
reading." 

It  was  Fraye's  letter  of  marque.  Mace  took 
its  contents  in  with  half  a  glance. 

"Bote  Salaam,  my  Lord  High  Commissioner," 
he  drawled.  "A  most  imposing  document. 
There's  only  one  thing  lacking,  which  is  my  con- 
sent. As  for  Thomas  Masterman  Fraye,  he's 
more  man  than  master  to-night,  I  fancy." 

And  Mace  tore  the  letter  into  bits. 

"Where's  your  commission  now?"  he  inquired, 
tossing  them  over  the  back  of  his  chair. 

Godbolt  stood  unmoved,  with  arms  folded  on 
his  breast — where  his  tunic  was  unbuttoned. 

"I've  done  my  legal  duty,  Mr.  Mace.  You 
took  service  o'  my  paper.  Tear  it  up  or  swallow  it 
down;  make  a  boy's  windmill  of  it  if  ye  so  desire; 
the  thing  is  done.  You  tried  to  let  us  eat  a  fish, 
other  day.  Call  that  a  mistake.  You  had  my 
friend,  Rob  Wallace,  cowardly  shot  this  after- 
noon in  the  sheep  field.  Ye  want  the  whole  island 
for  your  own,  and — never  mind  what  else  ye  want. 
By  th'  Eternal,  ye  sha'n't  have  it.     I  arrest  ye." 

Mace  cackled. 


232  THEFARCRY 

"You  born  fool!"  he  answered,  drily.  "The 
boot's  on  the  other  foot.  You're  the  man  arrested 
— the  man,  by  Jove,  that  walked  into  jail !  Of  all 
blind,  oafish,  lumbering  conceit!  Why,  when 
you  swaggered  in  just  now,  did  it  never  cross  your 
mind  that  I  would  hardly  permit  you  to  go  swag- 
gering out  again?" 

The  sailor  nodded.  A  smile  played  round  his 
lips — a  calm,  pleasant  little  smile,  that  made  his 
rejoinder  infinitely  grim. 

"  'Tain't  no  great  of  a  mind,"  he  admitted,  "but 
something  crossed  it,  Mr.  Mace.  As  follows:  I 
think  unless  we  both  walk  out  together  quiet  and 
peaceable,  one  of  us  is  going  to  die  right  here  in 
this  room." 

Mace  peered  up  anew,  more  sharply  even  than 
before.  When  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  not  so 
harsh,  but  had  a  mingled  note,  as  if  some  old 
frayed  string  of  kindness  were  set  vibrating. 

"I  withdraw  my  expression,"  he  said.  "You're 
no  fool,  or  at  least  a  brave  one.  Far  too  brave; 
far  too  rash,  Mr.  Godbolt."  He  waved  his  hand 
slightly  toward  the  table.  "Do  you  see  my  boat- 
call  there?" 

A  silver  whistle  lay  shining  beside  the  forgotten 
brandy. 

"Saw  that  when  I  first  came  in."  Godbolt's  eyes 


ATHINGTODO  233 

did  not  swerve  from  the  face  below  him.  "What 
of  it?" 

"How  if  I  should  blow  for  help  ?"  said  Mace. 

"Don't  try,"  the  other  counseled,  gravely.  "Be- 
fore your  old  fingers  carried  that  whistle  to  your 
mouth,  the  life  would  be  blasted  out  o'  ye." 

Mace  nodded  his  long,  gray  head,  in  approval. 

"I  see/'  he  murmured.  "Several  things  have 
crossed  your  mind,  after  all.  My  compliments. 
If  you  count  on  stopping  me  so  quickly  as  you  say, 
I  take  it  you're  armed?  For  a  lark,  now,  let  us 
make  the  experiment." 

With  a  cool,  playful  air,  the  old  scapegrace 
leaned  toward  the  table,  and  let  his  right  hand 
fumble  near  the  silver  boat-call. 

Godbolt  laughed,  and  merely  uncrossed  his 
arms.  The  dark  pistol,  which  Wallace  had  seen 
him  loading,  flew  like  a  bird  into  his  hand  and  glit- 
tered there  as  by  magic. 

"Ah,  now  I  follow  you."  Mace  drew  back,  and 
lay  quite  composed.  "Under  your  tunic,  was  it 
not?    Are  you  a  marksman  at  all?" 

Godbolt  re-folded  his  arms,  but  with  the  pistol- 
barrel  pointing  over  one  elbow. 

"I  do  what  I  can,"  he  jested,  "in  a  humble  kind 
o'  way.    The  only  gift  I  got." 

Mace  awkwardly  stretched  out  his  legs.    The 


234  THE    FAR    CRY 

motion  brought  him  somewhat  lower  in  his  chair. 

UA  bold  man,  a  bold  plan,"  said  he.  "Unless  I 
go  with  you  quietly,  as  a  prisoner,  you  will  exer- 
cise your  talent,  and  fire?  At  Fraye's,  you'd  put 
me  under  guard,  wait  till  that  young  ass  Walter 
brings  the  schooner  home,  and  then — deport  me  ? 
Was  that  your  meaning?" 

"To  a  hair,"  said  Godbolt. 

Overhead  the  patent  light  burned  low  for  a 
moment,  as  some  flying  insect  blundered  through 
the  flame.  No  more  than  a  wink  and  a  sputter,  the 
tiny  change  made  both  men  jump.  Each  had  used 
a  tone  persuasive  and  bantering;  each  labored 
under  a  deadly  strain ;  but  when  they  felt  the  room 
once  more  surcharged  with  light  and  stillness,  it 
was  Mace,  apparently,  who  had  suffered  from  that 
break  of  tension.  He  had  slipped  farther  down 
in  his  chair,  and  let  both  arms  dangle  over-side. 
His  face  was  white,  sick,  and  moist. 

"You'll  fire  if  I  don't  go?"  he  repeated,  in  a 
creaking  but  indomitable  voice.  "Very  well,  sir. 
I  won't  go.    Fire." 

Godbolt  stared.  This  man  looked  up  at  him  as 
a  frightened  patient  might  regard  a  surgeon,  yet 
with  a  gleam  of  purpose,  resolution,  or  mysterious 
hope. 

"Come,  fire." 


ATHINGTODO  235 

Godbolt  freed  his  right  hand  slowly,  pointing 
his  weapon  at  the  attap  roof.  He  cleared  his 
throat. 

"I  give  you  ten,"  he  proclaimed,  "to  get  on 
your  feet." 

And  he  counted  the  numbers  aloud. 

"Ten,"  he  called,  with  a  strange  rising  inflec- 
tion. 

The  pair  of  natives  hidden  outside,  behind  the 
castor-oil  bush,  afterward  said  that  at  this  point 
all  the  night  seemed  to  be  going  by  at  once,  and 
the  house  to  stand  still  before  them  with  the  fig- 
ures in  it,  very  large  and  bright  but  not  alive,  like 
a  piece  of  devil-work. 

"Well?"  broke  out  Mace.  "Why  don't  you 
fire?     Time — Finish  it,  man!     I  won't  budge!" 

Indeed,  Mace  lay  quite  limp  in  the  bottom  of  his 
rattan  chair,  with  left  arm  hanging  to  the  floor, 
and  right  arm  sunk  in  a  pool  of  darkness  under 
the  edge  of  the  table. 

Godbolt  suddenly  moaned  like  a  woman,  and 
dropped  both  hands  at  his  sides. 

"Ye  look  old.     Ye  look  sick.     You're  an  old 

man.    And  in  cold  blood Oh,  what  thing  was 

I  born  for,  then?" 

Mace  drew  breath  sharply. 

"You  can't!"  he  said.  "You  can't,  fellow. 
You're  beaten." 


236  THEFARCRY 

"I'm  beaten,"  groaned  the  sailor,  and  hung  his 
head. 

"Now  go,"  advised  his  conqueror.  "Go  home 
in  peace.  I'm  an  old  man,  as  you  say;  another 
evening  like  this  would  end  me."  Mace  raised 
his  left  hand  in  token  of  dismissal.  "I'm  too  weak 
for  any  more.    Go,  in  peace." 

The  hand  was  trembling  inordinately. 

"No  peace  any  more."  Godbolt  shook  his  head. 
"I  came  to  do  it,  and  I  failed." 

He  turned  heavily  toward  the  door.  As  he 
went,  there  came  two  sounds  at  once;  a  warning 
shout  from  the  compound,  a  crackle  of  rattan  be- 
hind him.  The  sailor  wheeled,  too  late  by  half  a 
second. 

Mace  had  whipped  his  long  right  arm  from 
under  the  table,  fetching  up  out  of  shadow  a  car- 
bine.   He  fired  point-blank. 

Godbolt's  pistol  blazed  harmless  at  the  roof, 
even  as  that  rushing  wind  of  death  took  him  full 
in  the  breast,  and  swept  him  down. 

Mace  uttered  something  which  might  have  been 
a  word,  but  was  more  like  the  squeal  of  a  rat.  He 
jumped  from  his  chair,  and  stood  swaying.  Si- 
lence followed,  until  the  fallen  man  began  to 
writhe,  as  if  the  mat  beneath  him  were  a  wall  and 
he  a  climber.    Then  Mace  took  aim  at  the  striving 


ATHINGTODO  237 

head,  and  fired  again.  And  then  Godbolt  lay 
quiet,  his  face  buried  between  his  arms.  The  pis- 
tol had  flown  into  a  far  corner. 

"It  carried!"  Mace  dropped  his  carbine  into 
the  chair,  tottered  near  the  table,  seized  his 
brandy,  and  drank  deep.  uThe  bare  chance,"  he 
said  with  a  shudder,  "the  bare  chance  carried 
through!  Hundred  to  one.  Oh,  what  a  bat- 
tle!" 

For  a  time  he  stared  blindly  at  the  white  heap 
encumbering  his  floor.  When  he  moved,  he  gave 
it  a  wide  berth,  and  stole  to  the  doorway  only  by 
a  circuit. 

"Who  made  that  noise  in  the  compound?"  he 
called,  stridently.  "Come,  show  yourself.  I'm 
here.  The  fellow  got  in  my  way.  I  did  it.  I'll 
answer  for  it.    Come,  show  yourself!" 

The  night  refused  to  hear  his  arguments.  Be- 
low the  castor-oil  bush,  Anak  and  Satrap  hugged 
the  dust  for  dear  life,  and  thought  their  turn  was 
coming.  It  seemed  to  them  that  they  had  wit- 
nessed a  wonder,  an  end-all. 

But  the  real  wonder  was  yet  to  begin. 

"Noise?  No,"  growled  Mace.  "Imagination. 
It's  over." 

Hot  with  brandy  and  success,  the  slayer  faced 
the  room  again.    He  did  not  care,  or  was  not  able, 


238  THE    FAR    CRY 

to  look  before  him  clearly  as  he  stumbled  in.  And, 
therefore,  the  shock  fell  heavier  on  him — heavy 
and  cold  as  ice. 

"Ah !"  he  recoiled,  in  vain.    "I  saw  you " 

He  had  left  Godbolt  dead  upon  the  floor.  He 
met  Godbolt  living,  erect,  with  wavering  arms  held 
forward  to  grapple  and  arrest  him,  in  spite  of  vic- 
tory. By  a  miracle  of  human  will,  the  sailor,  shot 
through  the  body  and  through  both  cheeks,  had 
reared  and  lurched  forward,  towering. 

"Let  go!" 

Mace  felt  his  throat  collared  by  desperate  fin- 
gers. 

"Let  go  I"  He  tried  to  shout,  but  heard  only 
a  rasping  whisper.  No  silly  kind  heart  now,  no 
mercy  to  reckon  upon ;  here  was  the  final  combat. 
"Let  me — let  me " 

Mace  tore  himself  loose,  and  fell  back,  intend- 
ing to  reach  the  silver  whistle,  a  yard  or  more 
away.  This — so  far  as  may  be  known — was  the 
last  of  many  muddled  and  bad  intentions;  for  at 
a  clap,  all  the  arrears  of  sottish  living  descended 
on  him,  like  a  mallet  on  the  skull.  It  was  Oliver 
Mace,  this  time,  who  suddenly  encumbered  the 
floor,  staring. 

He  lay  there,  dead,  by  a  blow  which  no  man 
might  deliver. 


A   THING   TO   DO  239 

When  the  two  natives  had  convinced  each  other 
of  this  fact,  they  crept  into  the  room. 

"Tobat?"  they  crooned.  "Butool!— Can  it 
be  possible?    It  is  true." 

Godbolt  kept  his  footing,  had  even  a  little 
strength  to  spare.  He  put  forth  his  hand,  took 
from  Satrap's  throat  the  red  cotton  scarf,  and 
with  an  effort,  passed  it  round  his  own  disfigured 
countenance,  like  a  veil.  He  made  a  step  toward 
the  door;  then,  wearily,  hung  his  arm  over  Anak's 
shoulder,  and  let  the  brown  giant  take  him,  half 
led,  half  carried. 

The  bungalow  shone  bright  and  vacant  behind 
them.  Only  Satrap  halted  to  glance  back.  He 
spat  in  that  direction. 

"Good,"  he  croaked.      "Good  now,  Master." 

And  like  a  man  unchained  from  bondage,  he  ran 
ahead  to  find  and  re-light  his  lantern. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 


NO    MORE    SEA 


"We  shall  never  set  eyes  on  him  again,"  re- 
peated Katherine.  "Never  speak  to  him.  Oh, 
why  did  he  go?" 

She  waited  by  a  front  window,  questioning  the 
night,  the  garden,  the  calm  solitude  which  covered 
such  doubt  and  anguish,  yet  retained  a  spice  of 
clove  gilly-flower  and  a  twinkle  of  starry  water. 

Young  Tisdale,  the  ready  man,  could  think  of 
nothing  to  do  or  say. 

Her  grandfather  gave  a  fretful  cough.  He  had 
gathered  the  sound  of  her  words,  not  the  import. 
Extravagant  language  was  a  fault  in  her,  to  be 
corrected. 

"The  captain  went  boating,  I  tell  you.  He 
drank  your  health,  and  broke  his  glass  in  the  good 
old  fashion.  I  can't  see  why,  for  that  reason,  you 
roam  about  like  a  tragedy  queen." 

Katherine  turned,  imploring,  half  angry,  half  in 
tears. 

240 


NOMORESEA  241 

"Oh,  don't  speak  so  now,  dear  Grandfather!" 

Tisdale  saw  a  chance  to  be  useful,  and  ap- 
proaching the  old  man,  bent  and  whispered : 

"Let  her  be,  sir.  The  captain  has  gone  over 
to  Mace,  for  our  benefit." 

Thomas  Fraye  took  the  book  out  of  his  lap, 
carefully  placed  it  on  the  table,  and  as  carefully 
swung  his  feet  clear  from  his  chair.  He  found  it 
hard  to  rise,  but  once  risen,  stood  and  moved  like 
a  young  man.  Through  the  rest  of  that  evening, 
nobody  remembered  his  illness  or  his  age.  There 
was  for  him,  now  danger  blew  sharp  enough  upon 
them,  a  fire  in  old  ashes. 

"Kate,"  said  he,  "Kate,  sweetheart,  the  cap- 
tain will  come  back  to  us." 

The  girl  raised  her  head  with  a  fierce  motion, 
as  if  to  disown  such  comfort  once  for  all. 

"No!"  she  cried  imperiously.  "No!  He's 
mine — my  captain,  my  Francis !  I  won't  have  him 
back  with  blood  on  his  hands." 

The  two  men  stared  first  at  her,  then  at  each 
other,  confounded  not  only  by  the  flashing  pride 
of  this  avowal,  but  by  her  foresight.  They  had 
not  thought  of  the  one  sombre  condition  upon 
which  the  captain  might  return. 

"If  I  could  take  his  place "  began  Tisdale, 

ardently,  then  choked  and  remained  silent,  in  great 
bitterness  of  spirit. 


242  THEFARCRY 

Her  grandfather  said  the  only  possible  thing. 

"Keep  a  good  courage,  my  dear."  The  old  man 
joined  her  at  the  window,  put  his  arm  about  her; 
and  though  his  white  head  barely  reached  her 
shoulder,  he  spoke  and  moved  so  calmly,  so 
promptly,  so  much  according  to  his  own  advice, 
that  he  left  no  other  course  open,  but  to  be  brave. 
"Don't  think  ill  of  the  future.  Or  of  the 
captain.  He'll  do  nothing  you  wouldn't  have 
him  do,  Kate.    He  won't  stoop." 

At  this,  Katherine  clung  to  him,  and  so  the  pair 
waited,  each  supporting  the  other,  body  and  heart. 
Tisdale  drew  near.  They  both  glanced  up,  and 
nodded,  with  a  look  of  welcome  and  gratitude  that 
was  very  like  a  smile. 

A  bush  rustled.  Somebody  came  through  tlie 
garden. 

It  was  only  Wallace,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling. 

"I  couldn't  stay  alone,"  he  muttered,  pausing  at 
the  door. 

"Of  course  not."  Katherine  beckoned.  "I'm 
glad  you  thought  of  coming." 

They  made  room  for  Wallace  in  their  group. 
Nothing  more  was  said.  Silence  filled  the  open 
parlor,  except  when  the  walls,  their  basket  weave 
contracting  in  cool  night  air,  made  a  rasping  noise, 
or  ticked  like  a  loud  and  fitful  clock. 


NOMORESEA  243 

"Here  they  come."    It  was  the  girl  who  spoke. 

A  new  star  had  blossomed  on  the  lagoon — a  big, 
soft,  yellow  star,  burning  steadily  at  first,  then 
winking  in  regular  time  to  the  hollow  stroke  of 
oars.  Whom  it  lighted,  and  whose  boat,  were  mat- 
ters of  vain  guess-work  and  torture. 

The  yellow  star  sank  below  the  beach,  rose  on 
the  jetty  as  a  common  lantern,  and  came  bobbing 
slowly  through  the  garden.  Round  its  passage 
there  formed  and  melted  a  fringe  or  tunnel  of 
things  obscure — the  scarlet  heap  of  a  rose-bush, 
green  Poinciana  leaves,  and  palm  trunks  visible 
as  brown  columns  edged  with  misty  gilding,  like 
the  edge  of  fur.  Two  large  white-clad  men  la- 
bored, arm  in  arm,  down  this  wavering,  traveling 
vista  of  the  night;  a  third,  bent  and  dwarf-like, 
swung  the  lantern  before  them,  step  by  careful 
step. 

"He's  hurt!  Let  me  go,  dear!"  Katherine, 
first  of  all  the  watchers,  had  seen  who  was  com- 
ing, and  darted  out  to  meet  him  on  the  steps. 
"Oh,  Francis,  Francis!" 

In  this  wise  Godbolt  came  home,  his  left  arm 
round  Anak's  broad  shoulders,  his  right  upheld  by 
her  for  whose  sake  its  power  had  failed. 

"Put  him  into  my  chair,"  old  Fraye  directed, 
shortly  and  sourly. 


244  THE    FAR    CRY 

They  carried  him  thither,  placed  him  there 
under  the  lamp-light,  beside  the  table.  Like  a 
new  kind  of  Moslem  decoration,  the  blood-red  cot- 
ton scarf  muffled  all  his  face  up  to  the  eyes,  and 
hung  broadly  down  over  his  left  breast.  He  lay 
full  length,  a  figure  of  silence  and  mystery. 

"Abis  tuntu!  Surely  it  is  finished!"  cried  poor 
Satrap,  and  set  his  lantern  in  the  door,  and 
squatted  cowering. 

Godbolt's  eyes,  blacker  than  charcoal,  gazed 
over  the  red  bandage  as  from  a  distance.  They 
moved  slowly,  greeting  each  frightened  face  above 
them.  "I  see  you  plainly,"  said  their  look.  "I 
see  you  all."  At  last  they  met  Katherine's  eyes; 
and  then,  as  if  the  spirit  returned  fiery-swift  at  a 
call,  they  woke,  sparkled,  were  flooded  with  their 
old-time  lustre.  He  raised  his  hands,  and  made  a 
feeble  motion  like  the  motion  of  writing. 

"What  do  you  want,  old  fellow?"  said  Tisdale. 

But  Katherine  understood,  and  quickly  crossing 
the  room,  brought  back  a  pencil  and  a  sketching 
tablet. 

"Yes,  dear."  She  closed  the  captain's  fingers 
round  the  pencil,  quietly  knelt  by  the  chair,  and 
held  her  tablet  steady.    "Now  tell  us  what  it  was." 

The  captain  tried,  and  failed;  then  waited, 
gripped  the  pencil  more  firmly,  and  tried  again.  In 


NOMORESEA  245 

big,  schoolboy  letters,  a  few  words  to  the  page, 
he  wrote  : 

"All  well    Mace  dead,    I  never  did  it." 

Old  Fraye  read  the  message  aloud.  His  grand- 
daughter made  some  inarticulate  sound.  The  tab- 
let shook  in  her  hands.  Wallace  relieved  her  of 
it.  Tisdale  relieved  him,  and  tore  off  the  written 
sheet. 

"Oh,  Francis,  I  knew!"  she  moaned.  "I  felt 
certain.    You  never  could." 

Godbolt's  eyes  contained  a  smile,  part  happi- 
ness, part  irony. 

"Come,  my  lad,"  the  old  man  gently  counseled, 
"it's  time  we  saw  how  much  you're  hurt." 

It  seemed  evident — from  the  pallor  of  Godbolt's 
forehead,  as  from  that  steadfast  look  of  his — he 
was  dying;  and  for  answer,  he  wrote  again: 

"No  good,  sir.  They  do  not  hurt  a  mite.  Once 
in  cheeks,  once  in  Plural  Cavaty.    Can't  spell  him, 

but "    He  let  Wallace  tear  off  another  page, 

and  continued :  "but  so  the  Sawbones  called  him  on 
a  man  I  knew.  My  time  short,  don't  lose  none 
fretting." 

His  eyes  closed,  as  if  deliberation  weighed  them 
down;  then  opened,  while  he  painfully  inscribed 
the  fourth  page  of  his  bulletin. 

"Get  Arna  to  tell  you," 


246  THE    FAR    CRY 

"Anak?" 

They  turned  on  the  huge  man-servant,  who 
loomed  uneasy  in  the  background. 

"Anak,"  said  his  master,  "what  has  hap- 
pened?" 

Anak  louted  low,  and  reared  his  scrubby  head 
again,  six  feet  and  a  half  toward  the  roof-tree. 
Still  under  the  shadow  of  death,  still  in  a  tremor, 
he  obeyed,  and  began  to  narrate  what  he  had  seen 
and  heard  of  the  night's  work  on  Mango  Island. 
At  first,  the  music  of  his  voice  was  marred  and 
broken;  but  as  the  story  caught  and  carried  him, 
as  the  spell  of  that  hour  and  that  audience  made 
him  forget  the  castor-oil  bush  and  his  ignoble  fear 
behind  it,  the  man's  dark  face  began  to  work,  his 
eyes  rolled  white,  his  limbs  were  freed  in  eloquent 
motion.  He  became  an  actor,  bringing  past  fact 
bodily  into  the  present.  His  primer  English  fal- 
tered and  fell,  his  rhythm  changed,  and  on  the 
wings  of  his  own  language  he  swept  with  exalta- 
tion into  a  chant  of  war.  Brave  men  have  lived 
before  Agamemnon,  and  after;  but  few  since  the 
days  of  fable  have  had  their  doings  worthily  re- 
hearsed with  passion,  and  sung  aloud,  as  Anak  now 
sang  the  deed  of  his  terrible  captain.  The  deed 
was  over  with;  the  poem  only  born.  Anak,  for 
years  a  hulking  nondescript,  had  found  the  gift 


NOMORESEA  247 

within  him,  loosed  it,  and  become  historian  and 
bard. 

"Everywhere,"  he  sang,  spreading  his  arms  as 
he  retreated  on  the  close,  "now  everywhere  there 
shall  be  peace!" 

Thus  Godbolt  in  his  life-time  heard  his  own 
legend,  which,  by  the  will  of  chance  or  fate,  should 
pass  and  grow  from  generation  to  generation  upon 
the  island.  Perhaps  he  guessed  a  little  of  the 
truth,  how  poetry  can  seize  a  deed  and  change  it 
into  something  better.  At  any  rate,  his  forehead 
flushed,  losing  its  mortal  paleness;  his  eyes,  over 
the  red  cotton  barrier,  appeared  to  be  laughing. 
He  reached  out  weakly  for  his  tablet,  and 
scrawled : 

"After  all  that,  to  know  you  failed/" 

But  Katherine  accepted  the  poet's  version. 

"There  is  no  failure,  dear,"  she  whispered. 
"You  took  my  quarrel  on  you,  our  quarrel.  You 
did  your  best.  If  you  had  done  less,  I  would 
not  .  ,  .  be  kneeling  here." 

His  head  drooped  on  his  shoulder,  so  that  he 
might  see  her  where  she  knelt.  In  silence,  on  the 
brink  of  Time,  their  eyes  exchanged  that  light  and 
triumph  and  fulness  of  understanding,  which  no 
man  truly  knows  but  once. 

Godbolt  sighed.     His  heavy  eyelids  fluttered 


248  THE    FAR    CRY 

down,  as  if  sleep  were  coming,  and  measureless 
content.    He  remained  breathing. 

"You're  not  in  pain,  Francis?" 

He  shook  his  head,  slowly  and  restfully.  A 
thing  was  yet  to  do;  for  soon  he  roused,  looked 
on  his  tablet  blindly,  and  printed  a  few  words. 

"All  easy  now.  She  floats.  Way  a  cloud  sails. 
High.    Plenty  sun  all  round " 

His  pencil  dropped.  The  task  was  growing  too 
hard,  the  distance  too  great.  "She,"  the  mystic 
boat  carrying  a  soul,  had  sailed  very  high  in- 
deed. 

Again  and  again  the  house,  throughout  its  fab- 
ric, strained  and  chafed  like  a  basket  overloaded. 
Between  whiles,  there  was  no  more  sound  of  the 
sea ;  hardly  a  sound  of  breathing. 

"Francis,  wait  for  me!"  whispered  the  girl,  in 
sudden  terror.    "Wait  for  me !" 

He  could  not  possibly  have  heard,  or  hearing, 
understood.  So  thought  all  the  bystanders.  Yet 
he  groped  in  his  lap,  until  Arthur  gave  him  the 
pencil  and  once  more  held  up  the  tablet. 

"/  will  be  rounds  he  wrote,  "somewhere.  .  .  " 

His  sunburnt  hand,  strong  even  to  death,  re- 
laxed and  fell,  but  rose,  trembled,  and  growing 
white  and  stiff  with  resolution,  made  the  last  mark 
on  the  page. 


NOMORESEA  249 

"...  Always." 

The  red  blood  welling  within  him,  under  the 
red  scarf  which  hid  his  breast,  now  choked  and 
overflowed  some  living  channel.  Godbolt  grasped 
the  arms  of  his  chair,  essayed  to  lift  his  body,  suf- 
fered apparently  the  inevitable  throe,  and  lay  still. 
The  bright  cloud-ship  of  his  fancy  had  scraped  her 
keel,  no  more,  in  gaining  the  fair-way. 

"Leave  us  alone,"  said  Katherine. 

Her  grandfather  led  the  young  men  down  into 
the  garden.  Anak  followed  them,  joyfully  think- 
ing of  the  poem  he  had  made,  and  how  the  village 
would  resound  with  it  before  that  very  midnight. 

A  lantern  glowed  beneath  a  rose-bush,  and  re- 
vealed the  skinny  form  of  Satrap  crouching  there. 
With  a  lump  of  gray  coral  in  either  hand,  the 
friendless  boatman  beat  his  forehead,  stroke  on 
stroke  without  mercy;  for  so  in  ancient  days  his 
forefathers  had  learned  to  dull  their  grief. 

The  girl  in  the  house  had  no  such  method. 


CHAPTER    VXIX 


THE  "ZSPERANCE" 


Sunrise,  next  morning,  gilded  the  gray  sails 
of  a  schooner  that  made  her  way  through  the 
channel  confidently,  like  one  who  knew  her  sound- 
ings and  her  landmarks.  Before  she  had  opened 
the  lagoon  full  circle,  one  of  her  brown  look-outs 
hailed  the  woods  on  the  port  hand,  expecting  to 
hear  the  usual  answer,  to  see  the  swine-herds  burst 
out  from  some  fernbrake,  and  run  down  the  beach 
waving  eager  arms.  So  always  the  swineherds 
welcomed  the  family  schooner  Esperance.  To- 
day, however,  the  lookout  called  in  vain,  woods 
and  beach  gave  back  a  timorous  echo;  and  the 
Esperance,  one  hundred  and  eighty  tons,  Doctor 
Corbin  commanding,  stole  halfway  across  the  shal- 
low green  light  of  the  lagoon,  brought  up  to  an 
anchor  in  six  fathoms,  and  evoked  no  sound  but 
further  echo,  the  flying  rumble  of  her  own  chains. 

"I  don't  like  this,"  remarked  her  master,  at  the 
250 


THE    "ESPERANCE"         251 

ladder  head.  He  was  a  round,  red,  burly  little 
man,  with  a  fair  beard  close-cropped,  and  droll 
blue  eyes.  His  linen  clothes  were  maidenly  white, 
his  pumps  and  helmet  crusted  with  pipe  clay — all 
fresh  for  shore  and  lady's  company. 

"I  don't  half  like  this,"  he  repeated.  "Not  a 
boat  to  meet  us,  Mr.  Fraye.  Devilish  odd.  No- 
body fishing.  And  nobody  stirring  even  on  the 
pantalan." 

He  looked  anxiously  down  the  ladder.  A 
clinker-built  gig,  shining  with  varnished  cedar  and 
brasswork,  lay  ready  to  put  off.  A  pair  of  sea- 
going islanders  in  blue-and-white  turbans  held  her 
at  oar's  length  from  the  vessel. 

"My  dear  Corbin,"  laughed  a  handsome  young 
man,  who  lolled  between  the  white-bound  tiller- 
ropes.  "My  dear  Corbin,  I  had  really  begun  to 
hope  that,  now  your  anchor's  down,  you  might  dis- 
charge your  mind  of  dismal  forebodings.  The 
voyage  was  fairly  successful,  in  spite  of  them,  you 
must  admit?" 

Walter  Fraye  spoke  with  a  gentle,  drawling 
voice,  like  one  who  tolerates  a  rather  silly  world. 
A  fine,  slender,  fresh-colored  youth  with  delicate 
features,  and  black  eyebrows  flexible  as  those  of 
an  actor,  he  had  something  too  much  of  his  sis- 
ter's beauty.     Mouse-gray  clothes  and  a  narrow, 


252  THE    FAR    CRY 

mouse-gray  helmet  made  him  appear  slighter  even 
than  he  was,  and  very  sleek. 

11  'Twould  do  no  harm,"  pursued  the  doctor- 
captain,  frowning  thoughtfully,  "to  take  a  hand- 
ful of  men   ashore.      In  case   of  trouble,   Mr. 

Fraye " 

The  youth  was  lighting  a  cigarette.  He  flipped 
the  match  overboard,  and  observed  lazily : 

"Thank  you,  Corbin.  I'm  quite  competent  to 
look  after  myself,  in  that  case." 

Corbin's  honest  face  appeared  to  bulge  and 
redden. 

"Very  good,  sir!"  he  replied  loudly,  and  turn- 
ing, stumped  away  aft. 

"Not  coming?"  inquired  Walter,  sweetly.  "As 
you  please,  Doctor.  Shall  I  send  the  gig  back  for 
you?  No?  Very  well."  He  shook  the  canvassed 
knots  of  the  tiller  rope  at  his  boatmen.  "Dayung! 
Give  way,  there  f" 

"God  go  with  you!"  muttered  Corbin. 
There  was  little  piety  about  this  ejaculation,  for 
it  was  in  a  boiling  rage  that  the  master  of  the 
Esperance  took  refuge  under  her  double  awning, 
ripped  off  topi,  tunic,  and  pumps,  and  slatted  him- 
self into  a  rawhide  chair.  So,  bare  to  the  waist, 
with  bare  feet  elevated  on  the  rail,  he  buried  his 
wrath  in  a  paper  novel,  and  in  a  mango,  of  which 


THE    "ESPERANCE"         253 

the  golden  pulp  outshone  his  beard  as  he  bit,  now 
and  then,  slowly  and  ferociously.  Soon  afterward 
he  dropped  his  book,  flung  overboard  the  mango 
stone  and  rind,  and  blew  off  the  rest  of  his  mental 
steam. 

"You  call  yourself  her  brother  1"  Corbin  glared 
at  his  ten  toes  on  the  rail.  uHer  brother !  'Com- 
petent to  look' — competent,  yes,  to  look  after 
Number  One.  No  fear.  Silk-and-satin  puppy! 
Talking  so  mild,  as  if  your  tongue  was  a  wad  of 
salve !  Waugh !  My  word,  I  kept  my  temper  the 
whole  voyage,  anyhow  I" 

Meanwhile,  unaware  that  any  tempers  might 
be  ruffled,  Walter  Fraye  had  steered  his  course  for 
the  jetty,  lounging  with  a  pleasant  fragrance  of 
Cavalla  tobacco  in  his  nostrils,  urbane  satisfaction 
in  his  heart.  The  young  man  took  things  urbanely 
always;  never  more  so  than  on  this  bright,  spring- 
like morning,  as  he  was  rowed  home  in  triumph,  a 
fortnight  ahead  of  the  appointed  time,  with  great 
good  news  for  his  family.  Let  grandfather  and 
Katherine  show  all  the  exultation. 

"Time  they  should,"  he  reflected,  smiling. 
"They  were  quite  in  the  wrong,  as  I  told  them 
when  I  left.  The  old  governor  has  some  rather 
peppery  words  to  eat,  I  fancy." 

A  glorious  bit  of  weather,  he  noted:  the  lagoon 


254  THEFARCRY 

such  a  vernal  green — green  as  young  buds — that 
color  which  one  sees  in  a  French  picture  of 
spring;  the  shore  woods  sodark  and  virile,  painted 
flat;  and  the  sky  beyond,  glowing  without  a  cloud, 
so  blue. 

"A  regular  'penitential  blue,'  "  he  sighed. 
"Good  phrase,  'penitential.'  Wonderful  phrase, 
that  of  Pater's." 

He  flung  away  his  cigarette,  to  swing  the  boat 
alongside  the  jetty  ladder. 

"Ati  ati!  Bail"  he  told  the  admiring  rowers; 
then  dropped  the  tiller  guides,  and  climbed  the 
ladder. 

The  Esperance  never  came  home  and  sent  in 
her  boat  but  half  the  village  thronged  this  land- 
ing stage.  To-day  not  a  soul  had  come  there,  or 
to  the  beach,  or  to  the  shadowy  depth  of  the  gar- 
den. 

"It  is  odd!"  Walter,  sleek  and  deliberate, 
sauntered  up  the  narrow  platform  with  a  feeling 
of  disappointment.  UI  do  think  somebody  might 
have  met  us.    They  can't  all  be  asleep." 

Entering  the  grove,  he  heard  a  sound  which 
made  him  pause  and  listen:  a  murmur  of  many 
voices  from  somewhere  beyond  the  house — the 
stir  and  rustle  and  subdued  buzzing  of  a  multi- 
tude, then  a  great  voice  uplifted  in  chanting,  like 


THE    "ESPERANCE"         255 

the  voice  of  a  priest  or  a  poet  singing  his  rhap- 
sody. 

"Corbin  was  right,"  he  acknowledged.  "It's 
devilish  odd." 

Craning  his  neck,  and  peering  over  the  shrub- 
bery tops,  he  saw  in  a  glade  to  the  left  of  the  gar- 
den all  the  villagers  standing  motionless,  close 
packed  in  the  sunshine,  wearing  their  brightest 
clothes  and  holiday  garlands.  A  swarthy  giant 
reared  and  swayed  in  their  midst,  high  on  a  moss- 
covered  mound  of  brain-coral,  as  though  declaim- 
ing from  a  green  velvet  stage.  It  was  Anak 
singing  the  first  canto  of  his  epic. 

"That  buck  nigger?  What's  he  doing?" 
thought  Walter  Fraye.  "It's  not  like  him  to  be 
noisy.  Has  there  been  a  ship  in?  Could  he  have 
got  liquor?" 

A  few  words  came  through  the  stillness,  a  frag- 
ment of  the  chant  of  Anak: 

"What  said  the  Mighty  One,  what  the  Deliverer? 
Lo,  he  was  dumb,  like  a  sheep  at  the  shearing. 
Death  mocked  Our  Captain,  fawned  on  him, 

leering, 
Ready  to  strike.    For  us  he  must  die  »  •  .  n 

Walter  turned  away  in  disgust. 


256  THE    FAR    CRY 

"The  fool's  got  religion,  and  it's  gone  to  his 
head.    Anak  used  to  be  quiet  enough." 

But  why  did  all  that  concourse  remain  still, 
stone  still,  drinking  in  the  words  of  a  wild  singer? 
Why  should  the  island  be  empty  and  silent  else- 
where? Fraye  shook  his  head,  uneasily;  then  hur- 
ried through  alleys  of  rose  bush  and  honeysuckle, 
meeting  no  one,  growing  more  and  more  dubious, 
till  he  ran  up  the  steps  of  the  veranda. 

"Oh,  here  you  are,  then!"  he  called,  in  relief. 

Four  persons  occupied  the  far  end  of  the  ve- 
randa, to  the  right.  His  grandfather  stood  talk- 
ing with  two  strangers — two  sad-faced  young  men, 
one  of  whom  carried  a  broken  arm  in  a  sling. 
Katherine,  leaning  against  a  pillar,  seemed  to 
watch  and  hearken  after  something  inside  the 
house.  All  four  turned  toward  the  new-comer  in 
the  same  listless  way,  and  regarded  him  with  the 
same  listless  air,  as  though  he  caused  some  trivial 
interruption. 

"Back,  are  you?"  remarked  his  grandfather  in 
an  undertone,  extending  a  casual  hand.  "This  is 
Walter,  Mr.  Tisdale — and  Mr.  Wallace.  You've 
heard  me  speak  of  my  grandson." 

Walter  stared.  He  could  always  pass  on  a 
snub,  however,  to  men  of  his  own  age. 

"How  are  you?"   he   said,   nodding  barrenly 


THE    "ESPERANCE"  257 

as  he  went  by  them.     "Hello,  Kit,  old  fellow!" 

This  was  a  strange  and  very  flat  home-coming. 
Where  were  the  heated  questions  he  had  foreseen 
and  prepared  cool  answers  for?  Katherine,  his 
own  tom-boy  sister,  instead  of  crying  out  and 
rushing,  silently  turned,  walked  toward  him  with 
a  dream-like  dignity,  kissed  him  once  on  the  cheek, 
and  stood  back  from  him.  Her  pallor,  her  pas- 
sive, worn-out  expectancy,  gave  him  a  shock, 
which  was  not  lessened  when  he  saw  her  face 
change,  quicken,  flame  into  a  haggard  semblance 
of  its  old  brightness.  His  return  had  meant  noth- 
ing to  her,  at  first;  now  it  meant  a  great  deal,  but 
not  what  he  had  the  right  to  expect.  Her  brown 
eyes,  terribly  large,  and  kindling  with  wild  hope, 
met  and  searched  him  as  though  he  had  been  a 
stranger  bringing  a  strange  message. 

"Where's  Corbin?"  she  asked. 

"Aboard  schooner,  the  old  misanthrope,"  he 
replied.  "Why,  Kit,  have  you  nothing  to  say  to  a 
chap?" 

She  cut  him  short,  twining  her  fingers  together 
at  her  breast,  with  a  gesture  full  of  pain  and 
hurry. 

"The  gig,  then?"  she  demanded.  "Where's  the 
gig?    Rowers?    At  the  jetty?" 

Walter  gave  her  stare  for  stare. 


258  THE    FAR    CRY 

"Of  course  it's  at  the  jetty,"  he  drawled.  "They 
brought  me  ashore.    Naturally." 

Katherine  caught  from  his  hand  the  mouse- 
gray  helmet,  and  clapping  it  on  her  head  as  she 
passed  him,  without  a  word  ran  down  the  steps, 
down  the  garden  path,  toward  the  lagoon. 

Her  brother,  aggrieved  and  astonished,  watched 
her  disappear  among  the  tall,  yellow-spattered 
croton  leaves. 

"I  hope  you've  come  in  time,  Walter,"  said  old 
Fraye.     "I  hope  you're  not  too  late,  my  boy!" 

The  youth  wheeled  angrily. 

"Why,  sir,"  he  retorted,  in  his  blandest  voice, 
"I  thought  I'd  done  more.  I  thought  I  was  bring- 
ing news.  It  was  a  rotten  stupid  voyage  with  old 
Corbin,  but  never  mind  that.  You  may  care  to 
know  that  I  reached  my  friend  Laurie  by  the 
cable.  Government  House  has  acted,  he  tells  me, 
at  last.  Things  are  definitely  set  in  motion;  so 
much  so  that  his  chief  has  arranged  with  the  senior 
naval  to  send  us  a  gunboat  of  sorts  within  the 
month;  the  flag  is  to  be  raised  for  you,  letters- 
patent  read  out,  and  a  grant-in-fee  handed  you. 
We  so  often  wished  for  this  very  thing,  sir,  I 
thought  you  might  be  pleased  to  hear  it's  almost 
on  the  way." 

He  paused.  This  neat  and  debonair  report  was 
to  be  his  triumph. 


THE    "ESPERANCE"         259 

"Ah,  very  good,"  sighed  his  grandfather, 
vaguely.  "Well  done,  I  dare  say."  The  old  man 
cast  about,  reaching  fretfully  behind  him,  for  the 
nearest  chair,  in  which  he  sat  down  with  great  de- 
liberation.   "It  doesn't  much  matter,  now." 

Walter  grew  righteously  indignant. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  he,  thrusting  his  hands  into 
his  pockets,  then  coldly  studying  Wallace  and  Tis- 
dale  from  top  to  toe.  "If  you're  busy  with  your 
friends,  and  don't  care  to  hear  what's  been  doing, 
perhaps  I'd  better  go  change  into  fresh  togs." 

He  turned  away  toward  the  house-door. 

"Stop.  Your  room's  taken,"  said  old  Fraye. 
"There's  a  poor  chap  lying  in  there  who's  not  long 
for  this  world." 

Tisdale  came  forward,  with  an  air  of  apology. 

"We  moved  your  things,"  he  told  Walter,  "into 
the  bachelors'  lines.  You'll  find  the  whole  lay-out 
there,  ready  for  you,  Mr.  Fraye.  Pardon  me.  I 
must  go  back  on  duty.  Rob,  you'd  better  make 
Anak  quit  singing,  or  move  away  farther.  We 
need  quiet." 

And  Tisdale  silently  dodged  into  the  house. 
Wallace  went  lumbering  on  his  errand.  They  left 
the  veranda  free  for  family  talk  and  privacy. 

"Upon  my  word !"  exclaimed  Walter,  watching 
them  go.  "What's  happened  to  you,  Governor? 
Taken  lodgers  ?" 


26o  THEFARCRY 

The  governor  tugged  his  white  moustache,  and 
looked  steadily,  grimly,  at  his  handsome  young 
grandchild. 

"Sit  down,"  he  ordered.  "Many  things  have 
happened.  Forget  yourself  a  moment.  Mace,  for 
one  thing,  is  dead." 

Walter  was  genuinely  startled. 

"What?"  he  cried.  "Dead?  The  poor  old 
blighter!    Sorry." 

Thomas  Masterman  Fraye  made  a  sour  face. 

"Our  loss,"  he  grunted,  "is  hell's  gain.  Sit 
down,  and  let  me  do  the  talking  for  once  in  a 
way." 

Aboard  the  Esperance,  Dr.  Corbin  still  kept 
his  bare  toes  cooling  on  the  taffrail  and  his  cropped 
yellow  beard  pointing  into  the  yellow  novel.  He 
seemed  the  picture  of  a  man  reading.  Yet  he  had 
not  even  turned  a  page,  or  understood  a  word 
among  the  printed  lines;  for  he  lay  thinking,  or 
rather  wondering,  as  any  strong  but  inarticulate 
man  wonders,  how  curious  and  deep  and  confused 
are  those  damned  things  called  emotions.  Corbin 
felt  moved. 

"It's  a  funny  feeling,"  he  told  himself.  "Old 
enough  to  know  better." 

He  was  old  enough  to  know  that  it  made  no  dif- 


THE    "ESPERANCE"         261 

ference  what  portion  of  land  or  sea  his  jolly  round 
body  happened  to  cross.  He  could  sit  in  the  Hong 
Kong  club,  or  the  Harmonia,  or  the  Ermita,  or 
the  Modderlust,  and  get  up  and  go  out  and  never 
be  missed.  He  could  sail  a  ship  to  beat  Vasco  de 
Gama ;  remember  enough  schooling  to  play  ship's 
doctor  at  a  pinch;  entertain  his  passengers,  too; 
keep  not  only  his  own  temper,  but  theirs ;  get  along 
well,  bah,  even  with  these  Walters;  and  at  the 
end  of  any  voyage,  say  the  polite  thing,  shake 
hands,  and  be  forgotten  all  round. 

"Don't  matter  where  I  am,"  reflected  Corbin. 
"I'm  the  kind  of  man,  say,  at  a  dinner  party,  you 
don't  know  whether  he  was  there  or  not.    Funny." 

Still,  for  all  that,  whenever  Corbin  anchored  in 
the  lagoon  of  Pulo  Princess,  he  felt  his  surround- 
ings to  be  tremendously  significant.  At  Pulo  Prin- 
cess he  became  shy,  and  with  good  reason  so.  The 
atoll  was  not  like  other  places.  Here  he  had 
made  an  ass  of  himself,  been  presumptuous,  and 
must  live  it  down.  No  mistake  about  that;  he 
must  live  it  down.  Going  ashore  on  Fraye's  Atoll 
and  behaving  like  the  quiet  old  stick  people 
thought  him  to  be,  was  a  task  that  called  forth  all 
his  reserves  of  courage  and  cheerfulness.  Yet  no 
sooner  did  the  Esperance  anchor  in  this  green  lake, 
and  her  skipper  sit,  as  now,  communing  with  his 


262  THE    FAR    CRY   ' 

heart,  than  he  grew  conscious  of  profound  and  un- 
deniable stirrings,  a  rebellious  joy  that  had  no  war- 
rant in  fact,  and  a  warm,  inward  persuasion  that 
he  was  at  home  and  welcome. 

"Nonsense,"  growled  Corbin.  uYou  only  make 
her  uncomfortable  when  you  go  on  shore.  Stay 
aboard." 

Just  as  he  formed  this  conclusion,  he  heard  the 
chock  of  oars  alongside,  and  the  crew  of  the  gig 
talking.  Among  their  voices  he  recognized  an- 
other voice  which  brought  him  out  of  his  chair. 

"Doctor  Corbin !"  it  hailed. 

Corbin  pitched  away  his  novel. 

"She  ?  No.  She  out  here  ?"  he  thought,  staring 
distractedly  along  the  deck.  "And  me  half 
naked!" 

He  struggled  into  his  white  tunic,  buttoned  it, 
and  crammed  his  bare  feet  into  his  canvas  pumps. 

"Doctor  Corbin!  Doctor!  Please  come!" 
cried  the  voice. 

He  ran  forward  to  the  waist  of  the  ship,  and 
popped  his  head  over  the  port  bulwarks. 

"We  need  you,"  said  Katherine. 

Snow-white,  except  for  her  brother's  gray  hel- 
met, she  sat  below  there  in  the  slender  gig,  hold- 
ing the  rudder-lines,  and  looking  up.  The  dazzle 
of  varnished  cedar,  the  rowers'  colored  kilts,  the 


THE    "ESPERANCE"         263 

translucent  green  background,  made  her  a  creature 
of  festival,  a  holiday  shape  from  some  regatta. 
Corbin  lost  himself  in  the  delight  of  seeing  her, 
though  it  was  less  like  reality  than  like  the  dear- 
est and  most  impossible  thought  come  true.  She, 
of  her  own  accord,  to  be  here  visiting  the 
schooner?  He  marveled,  and  could  not  believe. 
The  consolation  of  his  solitude,  the  figure  pervad- 
ing his  regret,  sat  there  and  appealed  to  him  with 
living  eyes.  It  was  not  right :  she  should  not  have 
come  alone  .  .   . 

"Please  hurry,"  she  said. 

Honest  Corbin  returned  to  himself,  and  knew 
that  self  for  an  old  fool. 

"What's  wrong?"  he  called,  quickly,  "Your 
grandfather?    Worse?" 

Katherine  shook  her  head. 

"No.  It's  Francis.  I  mean,"  she  added,  "the 
captain.     Gunshot  wounds.     Do  come." 

"Half  a  moment,"  cried  the  skipper  of  the  Es- 
perance,  promptly.  "My  bag's  in  the  medicine 
chest." 

He  ran  aft  as  though  the  ship  were  on  fire,  and 
bounded  down  into  his  cabin  without  touching  the 
companion  stairs.  Next  moment  he  was  at  the 
rail  again,  carrying  a  leather  satchel,  and  putting 
on  his  helmet  as  he  thundered  down  the  ladder. 


264  THE    FAR    CRY 

"Give  way!  Dayung!"  He  tumbled  into  the 
gig.     "Row,  boys.     Chupput-chupput !" 

While  waiting  for  him,  she  had  turned  the  boat's 
head  for  shore;  now,  as  the  oars  caught  the  water 
with  a  racing  start,  Corbin  perceived  that  the 
rowers  already  had  their  command  for  speed.  The 
gig  leaped  and  trembled  under  their  stroke.  Knee 
to  knee  with  Katherine,  the  skipper  sat  frightened 
by  what  he  saw.  It  was  not  the  mortal  whiteness 
of  her  face,  or  the  blazing  brown  eyes,  so  dark 
and  large,  that  daunted  him;  it  was  her  look — 
the  look  which  transformed  the  quiet  and  rather 
timid  girl  he  remembered,  into  a  very  lovely  but 
fierce  and  ambiguous  woman.  Her  beauty  went 
through  him  like  a  sword,  true  steel  of  the  ice- 
brook's  temper,  white,  flashing,  terrible.  And 
yet  the  look  plainly  told  him,  beyond  mistake,  that 
of  all  the  world  he,  Corbin  the  humble,  was  now 
the  presence  most  welcome  and  necessary  to  this 
woman's  soul.  He  could  not  understand,  but  he 
knew  it,  and  was  at  once  alarmed  and  exalted. 

Over  the  gray  helmet  the  masts  of  the  schooner 
dwindled  in  the  distance,  before  she  spoke.  She 
held  the  tiller-ropes  as  if  gripping  her  courage. 

"Doctor,"  she  said,  with  difficulty,  "you  once 
asked  me  a  question." 

Corbin's  heart  thumped  faster  than  the  flying 
oars. 


THE    "ESPERANCE"         265 

"I  know  I  did,"  he  groaned. 

"Don't  think  I'm  cruel,"  she  added,  hastily. 

He  could  not  bear  this  at  close  range,  in  the 
pent-up  isolation  of  the  boat.  He  hung  his  head 
for  a  moment,  studying  the  old  brown  leather  bag 
in  his  lap. 

"Miss  Fraye,"  he  began;  then  managed  to 
laugh,  and  look  up  again.  "Dear  child,  you 
couldn't  be  if  you  tried.  It's  not  in  you.  What's 
the  trouble?    Tell  me,  if  I " 

"Because  now  I  understand  what  it  meant  to 
you,"  she  went  on.  The  hardness  melted  from 
her  face  and  eyes ;  that  mien  of  the  resolute  woman 
vanished;  and  here  before  him  sat  the  young  Kath- 
erine  he  worshiped,  nearer  than  she  had  ever  come, 
and  trembling  with  pity  and  tenderness.  "I 
couldn't  understand,"  she  said.  "Not  till  .  .  . 
this  came.     You  were  kinder  to  me,  and  wiser, 

than "    She  broke  off,  checked  by  the  futility 

of  words.  "My  own  father  and  mother  could 
have  done  no  more." 

Corbin  cleared  his  throat,  and  fumbled  with  the 
metal  clasps  of  the  bag. 

"You  told  me,  at  the  time,  that  the  right  man 
would  come,"  said  Katherine.  "I  never  knew 
what  it  meant  to  you.  Not  till  now.  He  did 
come." 


266  THEFARCRY 

Corbin  looked  up  quickly.  This  early  morning 
voyage  across  the  smiling  lagoon  seemed  to  have 
lasted  for  ages,  without  beginning  or  end.  He 
felt  a  strange  fatigue,  a  conviction  that  he  was  no 
longer  young,  and  that  things  tired  him.  The  old 
fool  was  wiser,  but  old  in  earnest.  Whirlpools 
from  the  rowers'  blades  went  spinning  past,  round 
and  smooth  little  pits  revolving  in  the  green  glass 
of  the  water,  on  which  floated  oar-drops  white 
and  perfect,  like  scattering  pearls.  He  watched 
them  go  for  a  moment,  then  remembered  his 
duty. 

"I'm  glad!"  he  exclaimed,  with  all  his  heart. 
"I'm  very,  very  glad  for  you." 

They  regarded  each  other  steadily. 

"He's  dying,"  said  Katherine.  "In  Walter's 
room.  Oh,  you  mustn't  let  him  die !  He  can't ! 
You— you?" 

Her  voice  rose  in  a  wail.  The  hot  breath  of 
the  island  stole  across  the  water  and  enveloped 
them,  the  boat  ran  smoothly  into  the  glare  from 
the  concave  beach,  and  swung  alongside  the  drip- 
ping foot  of  the  jetty  ladder.  Corbin  rose.  He 
knew  that  she  was  weeping,  but  did  not  see  her. 

"I  won't,"  he  promised. 

To  the  core  he  felt,  and  acknowledged,  his  own 
sickening  incompetence.     He  was  only  a  stray, 


THE    "ESPERANCE"  267 

a  renegade  from  life,  who  could  neither  heal  nor 
comfort.  But  worst  of  all,  he  knew  how  hard 
their  talk  had  been  for  her. 

uUp  we  go,"  he  cried,  obstinately.    "We  won't 
let  him." 


CHAPTER    XX 


TWILIGHT 


Four  days  later,  at  sunset,  Arthur  Tisdale 
stood  in  the  big  room  alone.  He  was  there  for 
a  purpose,  having  slipped  away  from  Wallace  and 
the  bachelors'  bungalow,  and  come  once  more  to 
look  at  something. 

Daylight  was  already  gone  from  the  room,  leav- 
ing a  soft  obscurity  along  the  floor  and  night  in 
the  corners.  The  thing  that  had  drawn  him  there 
hung  on  a  plaited  wall  from  which  the  color  of 
burnt  gold  was  fading. 

"She  did  that  well,"  thought  Arthur,  as  he  took 
his  range  between  the  two  doorways.  "She  did  it 
marvelously." 

The  thing — a  portrait — looked  out  at  him  from 
the  dusk.  Unframed,  unfinished,  it  was  the  canvas 
that  Katherine  had  painted  by  the  sea  beach,  not 
many  evenings  ago.  She  had  done  well,  indeed. 
From  a  hazy  limbo  of  green  and  brown,  as  from 

268 


TWILIGHT  269 

deep  sylvan  twilight,  Godbolt  himself  was  glanc- 
ing forth,  askance,  in  his  old  familiar  way.  The 
painting  revealed  his  face,  and  that  only,  except 
where  a  touch  of  gray,  like  the  glimmer  of  a  dull 
breastplate,  showed  that  his  body  had  been  large 
and  solid. 

"There  you  are,  Sainty,  for  all  time,"  thought 
Arthur.    "It's  good — but  not  the  whole  of  you." 

He  stood  wondering,  a  plain  man  confronted 
by  the  greater  plainness  of  art.  What  was  that 
he  missed,  while  he  admired? 

A  sound  of  voices  broke  and  dispersed  his 
thought.  He  was  not  alone,  as  he  had  hoped  to 
be;  for  someone  had  spoken,  and  someone  else 
replied,  outside  the  open  windows  of  the  back 
veranda.    He  heard  the  voice  of  Katherine. 

"Waiting?"  it  said.  "But  that  is  so  long, 
Grandfather." 

Old  Thomas  Fraye  allowed  several  moments  to 
pass. 

"My  child,"  came  his  tranquil  answer,  "I  have 
waited  about  fifty  years,  all  told." 

Another  silence  followed. 

"But  that,"  said  the  girl's  voice,  "that  is  very 
long." 

"Why,  no!"  replied  the  elder,  bravely.  "Not 
so  long.    Time  flies,  and  there  are  many  persons 


270  THE    FAR    CRY 

to  share  it  with.  We're  all  waiting,  Sweetheart. 
We  do  what  we  can  in  the  meantime.  But  the 
truth  is,  all  of  us  are  waiting." 

The  speakers  remained  unseen  in  their  quiet 
corner.  Loth  to  overhear,  but  very  loth  to  go, 
Arthur  stole  one  more  look  at  the  countenance  of 
his  friend.  Something,  perhaps  the  gathering 
darkness,  had  come  to  his  aid;  for  now  he  under- 
stood what  the  portrait  lacked.  There  was  the 
man  Godbolt,  ready  to  speak,  and  yet  divested  of 
all  speech,  of  all  rough,  uncouth,  daily  imperfec- 
tion. The  dross  had  gone.  Lingering  in  that  twi- 
light, he  chose  only  to  unveil  his  face — his  face, 
kind  and  proud,  sensitive,  sad,  and  loyal. 

"The  spirit,"  thought  Arthur,  "without  the 
body."  And  of  a  sudden,  the  old  truth  pierced 
him  for  the  first  time.    "The  spirit  is  greater." 

A  footfall  sounded  in  the  room.  He  turned, 
and  saw  Walter  Fraye  approaching. 

"Good  thing,  that,"  observed  the  sleek  new- 
comer, with  a  nod  at  the  portrait.  "Don't  you  find 
it  so?  I  never  knew  him,  of  course,  but  as  a  piece 
of  work  I  think  Kit  has  done  herself  uncommonly 
proud." 

Tisdale  did  not  reply.  For  a  time  the  two 
young  men  stood  side  by  side. 

"Handsome  devil,"  continued  Walter,  the  critic. 


TWILIGHT  271 

''Rather  like  Bonny  Dundee,  don't  you  think? 
Without  the  lovelocks,  of  course." 

Tisdale  agreed,  for  courtesy. 

"Odd  stick  he  must  have  been,"  said  Fraye,  "by 
all  account.  Good  chap,  but  not  in  any  sense  a — 
well,  not  just  one  of  us,  eh?  Pity  to  go  get  him- 
self killed  for  nothing." 

Twilight  now  veiled  the  face  from  all  observers. 

"I'm  not  sure  it  was  a  pity,"  rejoined  Arthur, 
with  infinite  forbearance.  "I'd  rather  not  dis- 
cuss     He  was  my  friend.    He's  dying." 

And  Arthur  left  the  room.  He  had  some  vague 
intention  of  going  back  to  join  Wallace — good, 
honest,  dull  old  Rob.  In  the  garden,  however,  he 
came  to  a  standstill,  and  remained  there,  think- 
ing. Pity?  It  was  no  pity.  Walter  Fraye  had 
set  him  in  a  rage,  not  only  on  his  friend's  behalf, 
but  on  his  own;  for  in  that  young  urbanity  he  had 
discovered  himself  as  in  a  living  mirror,  facile, 
cold-hearted,  pleased  with  his  own  freedom. 

The  garden  held  an  old-time  spice.  He  looked 
on  the  ground  before  him,  and  saw  a  bed  of  clus- 
tered colors,  dim  in  the  evening  light. 

"Sainty's  gilly-flowers,"  he  said  aloud.  "Still 
going  on,  and  still  so  pretty.  I  must  tell  Kather- 
ine."  And  to  himself:  "I  wish  I  could  feel 
sure    as    Katherine    does,    about   that   waiting." 


272  THEFARCRY 

While  he  stood  inhaling  a  memory,  doubting  the 
future,  there  came  as  it  were  news  from  beyond. 
Many  a  time  Tisdale  had  heard  the  sea,  as  a  weary 
noise ;  but  now  in  the  garden,  in  the  flowered  gloom 
and  sweetness,  he  was  aware  of  a  vast,  uncertain 
thrill,  a  far  cry  sounding  through  the  eastern  trees. 
A  new  voice,  yet  very  old,  it  called  him  without 
haste. 

The  young  man  laughed. 

"I  understand,"  he  said.  "We  overtake  our 
friends.  All  right,  old  fellow,  I  begin  at  the  start- 
ing point." 

He  was  about  to  turn  away,  when  somebody 
came  slowly  toward  him  from  the  house.  Tisdale 
glanced  thither,  and  saw  a  white  figure  approach- 
ing, with  such  blind  steps  that  it  tottered  from  the 
path  and  brushed  the  bordering  leaves.  It  stopped. 
Something  told  him  this  exhausted  one  was  Doc- 
tor Corbin.    The  long  fight  had  ended. 

While  the  man  faltered  there,  a  second  white 
figure  came  gliding  like  a  strip  of  mist. 

"Wait!  Oh,  wait!"  called  a  low  voice,  broken 
with  weeping. 

The  voice  was  that  of  Katherine.  She  darted 
closer,  and  with  an  inarticulate  sound,  seemed 
ready  to  throw  her  arms  round  Corbin.  That 
weary  figure  shrank  backward. 


TWILIGHT  273 

"Not  me"  said  the  skipper's  voice,  harshly. 
"Not  me.  I'm  tough,  but  I  couldn't  bear  that. 
He  .  .  .  He's  a  very  fortunate  man,  and  deserves 
it.  Yes,  by  God,  he  does  deserve  it.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  poor  child.  I'm  just  a  little  bit  used  up. 
Where's  Rob  Wallace?  Think  I  need  a  smoke  or 
something." 

Tisdale  heard  the  doctor  muttering  still  as  he 
passed,  in  the  gloom,  toward  the  bachelors'  house. 

Katherine  came  straight  forward.  The  young 
man  drew  aside,  but  as  their  shadows  met,  she  put 
forth  a  hand. 

"He's  going  to  live,"  she  said. 

Arthur  could  not  find  a  word. 

"Yes,"  said  Katherine,  as  if  answering  that  si- 
lence.   "He  is  going  to  live." 

She  passed  by,  and  was  gone  among  the  other 
shadows.  Arthur  lost  the  white  blur  of  her  gar- 
ments, then  saw  it  again,  or  thought  he  saw  it.  By 
its  motion,  she  seemed  to  be  kneeling  in  the  path, 
burying  her  face  among  the  clove  gilly-flowers. 

A  belated  fisherman  rowing  home  across  the 
lagoon,  out  where  distance  glimmered,  began  to 
halloo  and  sing  the  new  Song  of  Anak;  but  his 
lonely  rejoicing  came  at  intervals,  overborne  and 
belittled  by  the  sterner  voice  of  the  surf. 

THE    END 


YB397 


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